I write after my real job hoping one day to have it be my real job. When I’m not reading or writing short stories, you might find me fishing or solving crossword puzzles. Me and Bart and the Tomato War It was the third week of September and about time for the first frost. That meant tomato picking. Mom thought it was a good idea to help the church and the community. I thought it was enough help for the church and community if I stayed out of trouble, but apparently, that was not enough. Farmer Harris grew fields and fields of tomatoes for the local stores and for anyone who stopped at his farm stand. The third weekend in September was the annual tomato harvest for the Daughters of Dorcas group at the church. Since Mom was head of “The Daughters,” of course I would be picking tomatoes on the weekend. I didn’t mind it really. Mom hugged me and said, “Last year we canned 2000 quarts of tomato sauce. We hope to break last year’s record.” I couldn’t figure out why they wanted more tomato sauce than last year. The church was famous for its spaghetti benefit suppers. Hardly a winter week went by without a supper benefiting someone or something. I liked spaghetti, but a pizza and coke fundraiser sure would be nice once and a while. Bart showed up bright and early Saturday morning and said, “I’m ready.” Bart’s mom didn’t make him pick tomatoes but he came anyway. He’s a true friend. During the ride to the farm, Me and Bart talked about how good the baseball season was and about picking tomatoes. We were among the first to arrive at the tomato farm so Mom could help organize. Me and Bart carried kettles to the burners for making sauce and lined up pails for picking to get ready for the 9 am start. Bart put the last kettle down and said, “I love spaghetti and can’t wait for the spaghetti lunch. How about you?” “Yup. It’s really good and we can eat all we want.” Mr. Harris was a big guy and easy to spot in his coveralls and floppy hat. He was all smiles as he thanked the dozens of pickers who showed up. We were to leave the green tomatoes and pick all the others. The red ones were to go directly to “The Daughters” to cook sauce on site and the yellow ones were to go in special crates. He said they’d ripen later and would be made into sauce in a couple weeks. Me and Bart grabbed buckets ready to start for the field when Bart stopped. Nodding toward the parking lot, he said, “Would you look at that.” I looked and who did I see but Fred Wick and Billy Ferber. The two biggest bullies in school strutting around like they owned the place. “I guess reciting the Hail Mary three times wasn’t enough, they had to come here to repent,” I said quietly. “They cause trouble wherever they are.” “Just ignore them,” Bart said. “Besides, since the bicycle incident, they’ve pretty much left us alone. I guess they didn’t want us to tell everyone about that.” We both laughed. Me and Bart picked lots of tomatoes and carried them back and forth to the cooking pots all morning. By the time lunch was ready, we were hungry. While we ate, we kept hearing “We’ll have no problem breaking last year’s record, we have lots of good tomato pickers.” Me and Bart were a year older, stronger, and faster and we sure picked a lot of tomatoes. Bart mopped up the last of the sauce on his plate with a piece of bread and said, “The sauce tastes better when you helped pick the tomatoes.” I was collecting up our lunch plates but dropped them onto the ground when I got bumped into from behind. It was Billy and Fred. “Look at these two morons. I bet they actually picked tomatoes.” Bart stood up and said, “Hey, if it isn’t the two whitest butts in school. We’d love to stay and chat but we have to pick tomatoes.” The two bullies started for Bart but stopped when Mr. Harris spoke to the crowd. “We have a special treat this year for all who want to participate. We’re going to have a tomato war. You get to throw tomatoes at each other. There’ll be two areas roped off and you get to choose your own teams. Should be fun for everyone. No sense having all these green tomatoes go to waste. Keep picking and help “The Daughters” break last year’s record amount of sauce. We’ll have the tomato war at 4 pm. Let’s get back to picking.” Bart tugged my sleeve as he got up from the table and told the bullies, “We’ll see you at 4 pm.” We picked for a couple of hours while I kept worrying. “Bart, what’ll we do about Billy and Fred at 4 pm?” “We’ll cream ‘em at the tomato war. You wait and see.” I wasn’t sure, but Bart always seemed to have a plan. “Look at that, Bart. Fred and Billy just took tomatoes from those younger kids and tipped over the buckets of those two new kids in school. They’re quiet and shy in class. Where are they from anyway? They seem nice.” “I dunno, but they may give them a battle, those new kids are strong, they did more sit ups and pushups than anyone else in gym class.” “It’s not right, maybe I should tell my mom.” “Nah, just pick tomatoes, we have twenty feet left of this row. We’ll take care of them later.” We carried the last of the ripe tomatoes to the kettles and saw two areas roped off. All the pickers were gathered around the areas waiting for Mr. Harris to speak. “Go get the two new kids to be on our team,” Bart said. “Billy and Fred, I suppose you two are too chicken to join the fun, huh?” I wasn’t sure taunting them was a good idea but I went to get the two new kids on our team. Mr. Harris stood in the area between the ropes with all the pickers around him and smiled. Then he announced, “The rules are simple. Throw green tomatoes. If you don’t want to be hit, don’t play. There’s nowhere to hide. Just divide yourselves up into two teams. When you’ve had enough, leave the roped-off area. Only throw from the roped-off area. That’ll put some distance between the teams. We start in ten minutes. Go gather green tomatoes.” Every tomato picker wanted to be part of the tomato war. Bart rounded up the younger kids Billy and Fred had been bullying and I got the two new kids. We huddled together as a team and figured out a strategy. We would only throw at Billy and Fred. No one else. Piles and piles of green tomatoes were in each area, like little green cannon balls on the grass. The adults gathered around to watch. This was going to be good. “Ready, set, tomato war!” cried smiling Mr. Harris. Unluckily for Billy and Fred, my pitching arm was still in baseball shape. Fred Wick was bending over to grab a tomato and SPLAT! The first hit of the day was in the middle of his back; the second splat was on Billy Ferber’s arm as he looked at Fred. The areas were far enough apart that the smaller kids on the bullies’ team had trouble throwing the tomatoes all the way to us without a large arc. Bart started catching these and firing them back. Most of our team had been nailed a time or two but everyone was smiling and laughing. SPLAT! SPLAT! Two more direct hits on Fred. That had to be at least ten hits on both him and Billy. Me and Bart were hit a couple of times, but nothing like Billy and Fred. They were moving to the back of the area and using the other kids as shields, so I went to gather more tomatoes. Bart yelled to the other team, “Fred and Billy I see you hiding in the back with the girls” Well, that brought them charging to the front and the two new kids started nailing them with direct hits, much to the enjoyment and laughter of both teams. A few kids at a time were getting done and moving out of the roped off area, making those two an easier target. “Look at those two getting nailed.” said Bart. “Yeah, and did you see who nailed them? We’re always looking for good arms for our baseball team. Imagine having a center fielder who can get the ball all the way to home plate.” Soon there was only Fred and Billy left on their side and they were getting nailed so bad they couldn’t even return fire. They were covered with tomato seeds and green tomato skins. It was great. About that time, Mr. Harris stepped in and stopped the tomato war. We were about out of green tomatoes anyway. The two bullies were standing alone in their roped-off area, fists clenched and teeth clenched. Bart didn’t help the situation when he called out, “Nice tomato war, too bad Mr. Harris had to save your white butts.” I thought they were going to pound us. That is, until they turned around and left. Now that was better than great. The cleanup went fast with all the helpers. The record for number of jars of sauce wasn’t quite broken that day. But when the yellow tomatoes ripened and were canned, it did break the record. The drive home took no time at all; I guess we were excited and tired at the same time. I told Bart the new kids were named Roger and Ronald. They were twins but they didn’t look the same. They’d played baseball on a team in Illinois before they moved here. “I asked and they said they’d like to play on our team over summer.” Bart leaned back and said, “I’d say our outfield just got better.” We both woke up with a start with the car stopped in the driveway at home. Me and Bart smiled at each other. Jars of sauce ready for another benefit supper season, bullies humiliated, and new players for our baseball team next summer. It was a good day and who knows, there is always tomorrow.
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Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. WOOLEN STOCKINGS Winnie took a cab to Laura’s town house. Laura met her on the porch. They hugged and Winnie gave her a box of Stutz candies. “You shouldn’t have,” said Laura. “I’ll get even fatter.” Laura always nursed a belly that looked like she was a couple of months pregnant. “I’ll put the coffee on,” said Laura, as she opened the door and led her friend inside. The place was immaculate, done all in white, with shiny white tiles in the kitchen and windows looking onto a small back yard with a swing set and slide beside a couple of small maple trees. Everything was frosted with snow and glistened under the noonday sun. “Laura,” said Winnie. “Amy’s in college. What’s with the swing sets?” “You know me, Win. Bobby and I don’t like change.” Winnie shook her head as her friend put the tea kettle onto the all-white stove with one of those tops that was a smooth single panel, easy to clean. The two old friends stood in the middle of the kitchen. They once lived in the infamous Village Green Apartments, built on a flood plain. Fortunately they had moved out before the tragedy. A tragedy waiting to happen, caused by greedy developers who built on a known flood plain. Laura and Winnie knew the four people who were killed. Murdered might be a better word. They died not by drowning. But by something much worse. The water had risen quickly, like it always did, up to “A” Building – the old people’s building. But instead of receding and settling back into the tributary of the Pennypack Creek, it rose higher and higher, all the way up to the second floor of the building, where Angie and her son, Rudy, were waiting to be rescued. The sound was heard for miles around. An explosion in the basement of “A” Building. The gas dryer had exploded and blew away six tenants. Over the years, Laura and Winnie kept in touch by phone or met for shopping dates. Winnie knew every detail of Laura’s life and on New Year’s Day, when she had off from work at the factory, she took a cab over to the Parkview Town Houses. The tea kettle began its high whistle and Laura poured the water through her clear-glass Chemex coffee maker. “You and your perfect cups of coffee,” Winnie laughed. “I know you want a tour of the house,” said Laura. She patted her belly, a habit Winnie remembered from the apartments. “Bobby home?” “That husband of mine. At the gym. He practically sleeps there.” As they walked, Laura gave a slow narration of her husband’s habits. He was either at the gym or at work. He had started his own computer company and did very well. “You know what my husband did?” Laura asked Winnie. Winnie laughed. “Can’t wait to hear.” “He gave everyone a huge bonus – all one hundred fifty employees – and also took them out for dinner.” “Let me guess where they went,” said Winnie, who seemed to pick up gossip as easily as picking up a piece of chocolate. “Abado’s Café.” “Damn, Winnie. How did you know?” Winnie begged off, saying they’d sit down and talk after the house tour. The living room was a show place. It had that unlived-in look. Like looking in a store window. The carpet was eggshell white and most of the furniture, including two white sofas that looked so delicious you wanted to sink your teeth into them, was a pristine white. Yellow accents such as a tall yellow and turquoise vase on the carpet lent an air of sophistication to the room. Neither Laura nor Bobby O’Riley was sophisticated. Photographs of Amy hung above the sofa. A beautiful child, if a bit pudgy like her mom, she had a broad smile when she lived in the apartments. As she inched toward high school graduation – and, yes, there she was in her cap and gown – her face looked less full. A third photo, taken in a lavender prom gown, as she stood between Bobby and Laura, showed a poised young woman on the edge of a brave new life. Winnie learned that Bobby had taken his daughter under his wing and introduced her around the gym. “She was always Daddy’s girl and the two of them would gallivant off to the fitness center, what a damn bore, where he taught her to ride all those godawful machines.” Winnie laughed. “She turned out to be a beautiful girl, don’t you think?” “More beautiful than I am,” said Laura. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when you and me go shopping at Marshall’s, try on clothes in those tiny fitting rooms and I have to look at myself in the mirror.” She shook her head and fluffed up her dark brown hair. From the living room they walked up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. “The home of a movie star,” laughed Winnie, as she followed her friend. Three bedrooms appeared at the top of the stairs. Amy’s room was childlike. Her stuffed animals – a white unicorn with a lifelike horn emerging from its forehead, Kermit the Frog, and a baby giraffe with huge button eyes – lay on the pillows of her bed. One window, in the shape of a huge half circle, looked over the front of Parkview, at the cars asleep in their parking spots on this enforced day of rest, New Year’s Day. “Does she come home much?” “Barely,” said Laura. “She has so many friends now that she’s at Penn. It’s a tough school to get into, you know.” Winnie didn’t wonder that she rarely came home. Bobby and Laura were constantly fighting, voices raised, fists pounding tables. Once, Laura told her over the phone, that Bobby had punched a hole in the kitchen wall, apologized, and had it plastered over before anyone saw it. “And, here’s Bobby’s room,” she said, leading Winnie into the master bedroom. “Oh, he has his own room now, does he?” It was filled with mirrors, a huge walk-in closet and a bathroom on the right. Laura opened up two closet doors. Immediately a bright light went on revealing Bobby’s wardrobe. Winnie went over and fingered a red silk robe. “Wonder where he got this?” “Oh, he goes downtown to some fancy shops to buy his stuff.” She led Winnie into the bathroom. Winnie saw the sunken pink Jacuzzi with water jets all around and seats for the bathers. “Me and Johnny, when we were going together,” said Winnie, “stayed in a fancy hotel downtown and had a great time in the Jacuzzi, if you know what I mean.” Laura laughed. “Bobby and I have the same old problem.” “I’m sure you do,” said Winnie. No need to say it: no sex. Returning to the kitchen they sat back down at the glass table. Laura poured more coffee and warmed it in the microwave above the stove. A red amaryllis, sitting atop the table, had just bloomed and sent its tall red spikes into the air. “You do have a way with interior design,” said Winnie. “Your apartment looked nothing like this.” Laura laughed. “We paid for a designer to come out. She still does. And she brought me this plant.” “One of the reasons I never visited before, hon, was because I was afraid to tell you something about your husband.” “My husband? Bobby? I can’t imagine what that would be.” She quickly thought of the first thing that pops into a woman’s head: an affair. But quickly dismissed the thought. Winnie cleared her throat and placed her hand on Laura’s. “Bobby is gay,” said Winnie. There was total silence. Laura got up and took the coffees out of the microwave, then sat back down in silence. She took a sip and sat stiff as a cardboard box. She looked down and then she stared at her friend. “Winnie, how do you know?” “Laura, everyone knows except you.” Winnie mentioned the lack of sex. “Men are horny. They love sex. Look at my Johnny and my Carl. They don’t even mind sleeping with a cripple.” She laughed. “How many times did you do it?” asked Winnie. Laura paused only a moment. “Once on our honeymoon. Or almost. He got sick, so we never finished.” “Go on,” said Winnie. “Well, there was that other time ….” “Yes, when you told him you wanted a child,” finished Winnie. Laura scratched her forehead, trying to comprehend what she had been in denial about for nineteen years. “Tom Abado and his restaurant?” said Winnie. “Bet that’s his boyfriend.” “Winnie, how could you?” said Laura, standing up and walking around the kitchen. “If he is gay, Winnie, do you think Amy knows?” “Probably. She’s a smart girl. But she loves her daddy. And always will. People are liberal nowadays about things like that.” They heard the sound of a car pulling into the garage. Laura looked at her watch, then looked at Winnie. They heard Bobby’s feet running up the basement stairs. He burst inside, panting, and saw the two of them seated at the table. “Honey!” he said, his voice rising. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having company?” Bobby took off his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. He was an average-sized man with firm muscled arms that showed through his blue short-sleeve shirt. His hair was dyed black but looked natural. “Bobby,” said Laura. “You remember Winnie from the apartments.” “Winnie! My God, I didn’t recognize you. How ya doing?” He went over and hugged her. Winnie was a pretty woman with dyed blond hair. As a polio victim, one leg was shorter than the other, but it never stopped her from meeting men or becoming a supervisor at the factory. She wore a brace under her blue jeans and had a specially-made shoe with an elevated sole, her “polio shoes,” as she called them. Winnie smiled. “I finally decided to visit your beautiful home. Oh, it’s lovely, Bobby. Just lovely. Like in a magazine. I’m so happy for you.” “Where are you living now?” he asked. “I couldn’t escape Hatboro, like you both did. I live on the seventh floor of The Garner House, right across from the train station.” Winnie talked about her job at the jewelry factory, wearing special thermal suits and goggles when she melted down gold nuggets to make jewelry. “They gave me a nice bonus since I been there thirty years.” She pulled out a blue-rimmed iPhone from her pocketbook. The phone began to vibrate and they all laughed. “It’s probably my Dawnie,” she said, referring to her grown daughter. “Guess I better be going.” Bobby volunteered to drive her home. “No, no, I’ll take the cab,” she insisted. “Not while you’re in my house,” said Bobby and helped her on with her coat. Laura heard the clop clop clop of her friend’s awkward-looking shoe as she walked down the basement steps and into the garage, where a ride home in a black BMW sports car awaited her. So, thought Laura, it must be true. “I must get used to this. What an embarrassment. Everyone knows but me.” Her festering resentment toward her husband began to grow and as the days passed, she felt uncomfortable living “with a fag in my house,” as she told Winnie over the phone. But how could she divorce him? She couldn’t possibly live on her own. She hadn’t worked a day of her married life. She had waitressed as a teenager at the Willow Inn. Every time she drove by, she was reminded how afraid she was to work outside the home, and how, yes, “pathetic” and “frightened” she was. What if anything happened to Bobby? She’d have to go out and find a job. One evening she was trying to fall asleep in her room. Where was that husband of hers? When she heard him walking up the stairs, she came out of her room, wearing a see-through white nightgown. “Where the hell have you been?” she yelled. “Business,” he said sleepily. “Business! Yeah, with your gay friends! I never dreamed I’d marry a faggot. A fucking faggot!” Bobby, head down, slunk into his room, saying nothing. He closed the door and she heard him lock it. “Oh!” she screamed as she went back into her room. She turned on the television. And flipped through the channels. In bright vibrant colors she watched a program about farmers. They strode through the landscape filled with purpose and wore odd clothing. Aha! They were the Amish. As she watched, she forgot about her recent discovery about Bobby and totally focused on the program. How good it was that everyone in the family, even the little children, worked, and the man – a manly man! – was the head of the family. While Amy was growing up, they had taken many a trip to the Reading Terminal Market in downtown Philadelphia. It was a high cavernous building replete with everything you would want: cut flowers, fresh fruits and vegetables year-round, and delicious meals from several Amish families. She remembered the juicy chickens and fresh cranberry sauce, piled in Styrofoam plates, along with black-eyed peas and cornbread. Laura decided to act quickly before she lost her nerve. From the basement, she pulled out a suitcase on wheels and dragged it upstairs and into her bedroom. An elevator would have been nice, she thought. She was out of breath when she got to her room and placed the suitcase on her yellow bedspread. Into it she put sweet-smelling clean clothes, pants, bras, underwear, and an old bathing suit for good measure. She packed a few towels and washcloths and took the suitcase downstairs to the kitchen. She would leave in the morning. She wrote a note, which she left on the table after Bobby drove off to work. “Bobby, I’m going away for a while. I’ll be fine. Will get in touch in a few weeks.” She signed it “Laura.” Forget the word “love.” She drove out of the garage in her own BMW sedan, a sturdy gray color. She punched in an address into the GPS on the dashboard and listened to the deep sound of a baritone male voice as she left Parkview Homes behind. She wondered if she would ever return. She was a woman who would not look back. She was afraid to. Hands firmly on the wheel, the roads were fine, the snow had all melted. “Turn left at Meetinghouse Road,” said the male voice. She paid strict attention as if her life depended on it. After a while, the voice stated, “Merge right onto Route 30.” Route 30 seemed to turn into another country, another lifetime, another century. After an hour, she found herself behind one of those famous black Amish buggies. The wheels of the buggy were huge. She lowered the window so she could hear the clopping of the horse’s hooves. The driver motioned to her to pass him and so she did, craning her neck to see what the man inside looked like. There he was, with a long scraggy black beard and a top hat like Abraham Lincoln’s. Her heart quickened. Certainly watching that program was a sign from God that she belonged here. Wasn’t it? She drove along the road. There wasn’t much traffic. Which shop should she pull into? Three of them on her right had quilts hanging outside the stores. My goodness, she thought. Maybe I can learn to quilt. She was more excited than on Amy’s high school graduation day. Had her whole life been a pretense, she wondered. Waiting, just waiting, for this sacred day? She pulled her BMW into the gravel driveway of the third quilt shop. The moment she walked in, she heard a strange language – neither French nor Italian but something like German – spoken by a few people in the store. When she walked in and the bells jingled on the door, a slender young woman greeted her. She wore a calf-length blue dress and the traditional bonnet on the back of her head. “Make yourself to home,” she said. “Look around. I am here to answer any questions you may have about our products.” Laura looked at shelves filled with all sorts of jam and honey, sticks of candy like licorice and mint, small wooden toys and stained glass designs of cardinals and bluebirds. She fingered some quilts, large and small, and lifted up some exquisite pot holders. “Great gifts,” she thought, but then remembered she was not going back. She remembered her suitcase in the back of her BMW. The Amish did not drive cars. She must be prepared to give up her car. She felt certain she could do it. To live like an Amish. To have a purpose. A reason to rise out of bed in the morning. More people leave the Amish community than join. Conversion is rare. She would soon learn this. But the Amish were big-hearted people and welcomed newcomers into their fold, like Naomi her gentile daughter-in-law, Ruth. Laura became a boarder in the household of Jared and Rachel Stolzfus. They lived on a farm with their four children. Laura’s BMW sat in the driveway like a spaceship just landed on earth. She slept in the attic, where various pieces of broken furniture were stored, along with bags of fabric waiting to be fashioned into dresses and pants and long socks. It was chilly in the attic, but several patchwork quilts warmed her body. She kept the window open a crack so she could hear the comings and goings of everyone outside. A small candle sat on her bedside table until she was ready to snuff it out for the night. It was only at night that she had a moment to think. And it was only a moment, since she was so utterly exhausted. Sometimes she would massage her sore feet and ankles. At home in the condo, she would watch television before bed. Despite the strange languages, clothing, and people, she felt utterly comfortable. Perhaps even like she belonged. “Don’t be impulsive,” she reminded herself. “I’ve got to give it time.” She slept well and could hardly believe how quickly morning had come. “Time to rise, Sister Laura!” called one of the children from the stairs. Laura dressed in her new Amish attire. She looked down at her new costume, for so it seemed at the time, and smoothed it out. No mirrors were to be found in Amish homes. Perhaps, she thought, she might look upon herself in the side view mirror of her car. No, she decided. That would be dishonest. This was her new life. Only honesty would prevail. Mother Rachel told her she would learn to milk a cow. “You must wash your hands very thoroughly,” she said. “And then Rebecca will walk you to the barn.” The soap in the kitchen was home-made. It was a cake of gray soap in the shape of a star. It felt good and pure on her hands, with her pink nail polish, that would soon flake off. Four huge cows were pawing the ground when they entered the barn. The last time Laura had seen a real cow was at a petting zoo. How strong was the smell, she thought, as their feet crunched on soft hay and earth. Rebecca was a fair-haired child, a miniature adult, who patiently taught Laura where to place the metal bucket and how to squeeze each teat to draw out the milk, which landed in the bucket. The sound of the milk was like a gentle rain spritzing on a tin roof. She sat on the little stool and, as she milked each cow, feeling an unaccustomed sense of peace sweep through her entire body. Her eyes began to tear up and flowed down her cheeks. Other chores included walking to the school house to pick up the four children after school. The two-storey wooden structure had a tower on the top with a bell inside. “Dong! Dong! Dong!” How loud and musical it was, she thought, as she approached. She stood to one side as kids from kindergarten through eighth grade came scrambling down the steps. They were like children everywhere. Like her Amy, when she’d come home to mom at the apartments. She gathered Rebecca and Daniel, Ben and Abby, into her outstretched arms. “What’s your name again?” asked little blue-eyed Abby. “Sister Laura. Can you say that?” “I can!” shouted Daniel and Ben in unison. A chorus of “Sister Laura” and “Thithter Lauras” greeted her. Laura helped set the table, with shiny pewter spoons, forks and knives, upon a pink tablecloth. Again she remarked to herself what artists her new people were. They all settled down in the large kitchen. Mother pulled up the shades as darkness was beginning to fall and they had no electric lights. She lit a family of candles all along the high shelves. Everything had been thought of. Even placement for the candles. Father Jared, in his chest-length graying beard, gave the blessing. His voice was breathy and musical. “We ask our Heavenly Father, the Lord Jesus, to bless us all and to allow Laura to learn our simple ways and decide if she wants to live among the plain people.” “Amen,” everyone, including the children said in unison. “How was your day, dear,” asked Mother Rachel. Laura realized how lonely she had been at home. There wasn’t a soul to talk to at the table or even during the day. “I am liking my time here very much,” she said, after swallowing a large forkful of meat loaf. “Rebecca has been so helpful to me. I would like to taste some of the milk we gathered.” “Tomorrow morning, dear, you will have nice creamy milk in your hot oatmeal,” said Mother Rachel. Laura watched everyone digging into the meat loaf, the best she had ever tasted, including her own, and the green beans with butter melting slowly on top, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes with butter. For dessert, Rachel brought out a hot apple pie. Laura patted her belly. When they finished dinner, the children asked if they might be excused, and Laura helped with the dishes. The water had been heating up at the wood-burning stove and was ready to transfer into the large wooden bucket. Soap flakes were poured in. Dipping her hands inside, Laura felt the smooth feel of the sudsy water and again her eyes teared up. After the dishes were cleaned, dried and put away, the family yawned and repaired around the fire in the living room. Laura didn’t even consider her own “designer” living room as she sat in a comfortable wooden rocking chair on cushions with colorful blue and white starburst patterns. What a love of art these people have, she thought once again. Father Jared brought out the family Bible, a well-worn book with faded edges. “My man, Daniel,” asked his Father Jared. “What would you like to hear me read, son?” “That’s eathy,” he lisped. “The thalm of King David, pweese,” he said. “The Lord is my Shepherd” was duly broadcast to the little family under the setting sun. When he finished, Rachel told Laura she had a gift for her. In her long green dress, Rachel walked over to a shelf in the living room and picked up a small object Laura couldn’t recognize. In fact, it looked a little like a small furry brown rabbit. “Stockings!” cried Laura, feeling them. “Woolen stockings.” “Yes indeed,” said Rachel. “I wove them this morning just for you.” “Just for you!” echoed little Abby, five years old. Everyone laughed. When Laura went up to the attic that night, she stroked the woolen stockings after she climbed into bed. She held them against her cheeks and then rubbed them across her mouth. They smelled like wool and wood smoke and apple pie. She pulled them onto her very tired feet, first the left and then the right. They clung to her legs as if they loved her and never wanted to leave her. “There’s so much to do here,” she thought. “I cannot wait to learn to knit woolen stockings. I’ll send a couple pair to Winnie, of course, and maybe even Bobby. Yes, I know Bobby would like them. He’s quite the fashion plate.” Heidi Heimler's work has appeared in both online and print publications, including People of Few Words, Volume II, Full of Crow, Potluck, The Scarlet Sound, Popcorn Fiction and others. She lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Siblings Though Mother Earth has birthed them all, the four siblings could not be more different. Fall is younger, shy, retiring. He likes earth tones and the scent of spice, but the blues are his constant companions, along with a thundering sky and a recurring torrent of rain. Fall wears dark clouds like hats. A perpetual chill rattles his bones. At times the sun breaks through and musses his gold-brown hair, but never long enough to warm him. Despite his quiet melancholy, Fall, when he sees children in their Halloween costumes or a woman painting a roasted bird with drippings and herbs, always manages a smile. One day, while Fall gathers leaves, forming them into neat piles because the trees shed their clothing so sloppily, his older brother Winter comes and buries Fall beneath a heavy blanket of snow. It's quick work; Fall never sees it coming. Grizzled and unshaven, Winter's erratic gaze darts this way and that, his eyes ice-blue and wild. He sends innocents running with his angry squalls, his raging winds and crippling storms. Words tumble from his lips at breakneck speed: danger, slippery, warning, accidents, fatalities. Invariably, Winter's frenzy stalls, then plummets. Temperatures fall, ushering in a withering stillness. There's no effective treatment, no way to stop Winter, nothing to do but take cover and wait. The only one that can calm him, can ease his mood swings and soothe his savagery, is his sister, Spring. When Spring comes, Winter beats a sometimes hasty, sometimes hesitant retreat. Eventually, he takes a bow and the stage is hers. The youngest in the family, Spring favors the dramatic. She has a penchant for the vivid, for bursting colors, for dressing up in floral prints and humming songs in major keys. Spring loves everybody. She's an innocent: virginal, delicate and new. Other girls hate her. She gets high on praise, washes herself in gentle rain, never wears a bra or panties. On warm nights she dances, reveling in the admiration. She'd go on forever if not for her older sister, Summer. Summer's face is leathered, her heart hardened. She insinuates herself into the lives of the sentient and the inanimate, rendering her sister nothing more than a memory. Her smile is too fixed, her jaw too set. She exhales fury. At times she's erotic, hungry for the taste of searing flesh, for friction and release. Her heat breaks through the gauzy restraint that she throws on just for show, a pretension meant to soften, but failing. Summer can love, and she can kill. She singles out an unsuspecting soul, gulps down breath, drains fluid, leaves her lover sated or lifeless, depending on her whim. But most of all she likes to burn. A good, miles-long forest fire sends her into spasms of orgiastic joy. She revels in her handiwork, marvels at the havoc she's wreaked. People hang their heads and cry, pleading with the skies to send relief. Eventually, the skies abide. And send Fall. Nels Johnson is an lawyer, lobbyist writer living in Portland, Oregon with his wife and dog. His work has been published in local and regional publications. His piece "Sitting in a Bar" was published in the December 2016 edition of the Scarlet Leaf Review. You can usually find him writing in darkly lit bars and coffee shops around Portland. Follow him on Twitter @mnelsjohnson. The Red Guitar R. J.’s flaming-red guitar was famous around the church. He was the worship leader, and on Sundays he’d pull the guitar out, crank up the volume, and lead the congregation into a state of rapture and ecstasy. “Holy Is the Lord,” that worship song from the early 1990s, was usually the big finale, played to get the congregation on their feet and hooting and hollering after the time of reflection. R. J. was a Pentecostal and believed those who were saved should shout thanks to the Lord and raise their hands in adoration. R. J. would start his worship set strumming a few power chords, slowly building in volume with the rhythm and arc of the song. People would start by sitting in the pews but gradually stand as the Spirit or R. J.’s guitar moved them. Mrs. Vanderpool, the old widow from the upper valley, was always the first one raising her hands as high as they would go, trying to touch the face of God. As R. J.’s guitar got louder, her hands lifted higher and higher, frozen and outstretched. She stood on her tiptoes and shook in fervent determination to finally reach the places she’d never been able to reach before. Once Mrs. Vanderpool got going, Mrs. McIsaac would follow. Mrs. McIsaac was around the same age as Mrs. Vanderpool. Her two children were grown and had been out of the house for years and never came around anymore. Folks in the church worried about her because she got to saying that the reason why she never turned her heat on in the winter anymore was because the Lord told her to have faith. She’d worn the same faded and threadbare coat every day through each of her ten cold and wet Oregon winters. Her slim figure was now as thin as a sapling. But her poverty never mattered to her, especially when she heard that red guitar play, carrying her prayers straight to Jesus himself. Reverend Carter was a carpenter by trade and preacher by calling. He fancied himself like the Apostle Paul: carpentry was his tent making, but the ministry was his real work. He hadn’t gone to college or some fancy seminary somewhere back East but instead spent his years reading the Good Book, and believing every word in it. When he wasn’t swinging his hammer and pounding nails, he was thumbing through his well-worn King James leather-bound Bible. Some of the pages had become so tattered and the ink so smeared you could barely make out the red letters. Reverend Carter said the mark of a good Bible was a well-worn one—it showed that the owner had a healthy fear of the wrath of God and a desire to be saved by his mercy. Reverend Carter believed that you could get saved through music. He’d seen it hundreds of times over the years as he preached the Gospel. Someone would show up to church, heart hardened, desperate, back sliding, and living a life of total depravity. But then they’d sit back, settle into the service, listen to the Word be preached from the pulpit, and God would start to do something in their heart. Pretty soon the sermon started to make sense, their internal walls would start to crumble as the Gospel would make its way past the person’s defenses, closing in on their heart. Then, the music would start, and the Holy Spirit would descend and remove the shackles of blindness and sin from their eyes, and they’d break down in tears and total surrender and get saved right then and there. Reverend Carter didn’t just believe that you could get saved through music—he expected it. “Can any of y’all tell me if Jesus’s in the house today?” R. J. called out to the congregation. “Praise him.” He was vamping now, playing the same simple melody over and over, settling into a tight, crunchy progression of power chords with his right hand muting the strings in a staccato buildup aimed at unleashing the congregation’s pent-up emotion once the song slowly climaxed. “Praise ya’, Lawd!” Mrs. Vanderpool wailed, her whole body trembling as the Holy Spirit start to wash over. R. J.’s power guitar howled on, creating space for salvation. The louder R. J. played, the more he vamped, the more he noodled on solos, the more the temperature of the room increased and the mood of the people became wild, more expressive, more passionate. His guitar playing gave them all the release they were looking for. When he played, it seemed like he had a full band behind him, even though it was just him. He’d use his loop pedal to lay down a percussion line, loop it in, add a rhythm guitar line, loop it in, and keep building and building until he’d created his own powerful sixteen-piece band. Every new layer brought another person from the congregation to their feet, or caused them to shout out. “Who here’s hada long week?” R. J. asked, his voice still raspy with morning fog as he continued the buildup. “Lawd help me, I have!” Mr. Wimmers called back, eyes closed, his head slowly shaking back and forth as he engaged in silent communion with God. “Church, d’you wanna be saved by Jesus?” R. J. said as he continued his call and response. “Lawd, have mercy on me!” another voice cried out. “I said, church, d’you wanna be saved by the blood of Christ today? D’you wanna experience repentance and forgiveness for all of your sins?” R. J. said, more urgently, his voice getting louder. “Jeeeezus save us!” the church replied, collectively emphasizing and drawing out the vowels of the Holy Redeemer’s name. The prayers and gentle outbursts by the members were now coming at regular intervals, just like one of R. J.’s loops. “Jay-sus, save us. Jay-sus save us.” People would individually call out, each worshiping from the intimate confine of their own mind. Every repetition of the mantra increased the tension and dissonance in the sanctuary. Whooom! R.J . suddenly clamped his right hand down on his guitar strings and stomped on his loop pedal, silencing his layered symphony. All that was audible was the soft and urgent groans and cries of the church, each person locked into worship, each communicating with God directly, each in such a focused state of urgency that the outside world was shut out of their thoughts. All that mattered was before them—a longing, delicate, and open line of communication directly to God. The Holy Spirit descended on the congregation, wafting in between the churchgoers. The air inside the sanctuary was thick and heavy with emotion, stifling even, with women using the church bulletins to fan themselves. As the seconds silent of R. J.’s guitar ticked by, the tension continued to mount, and the cries to heaven continued to grow and grow until they could not be held back anymore. The church was reaching its apex. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. R. J. thumped his right fist over the pickup of his guitar in rhythmic fashion, each strike hitting harder and faster than the one before. All of a sudden, he stomped his loop petal, and the sixteen-piece band came roaring back to life. “Holy is the Lord. Holy is the Lord!” R. J. cried as the church boiled over. “Worthy, worthy, worthy is our God.” Everyone extended their hands to heaven, feet dancing in the aisles as the Holy Spirit came upon the Church of the Holy Redeemer. … “Lord, I come before you this mornin’ as somebody who’s naked an’ afraid, impure, covered’n sin and mud, in need of your holy cleansing. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” he whispered into the early morning darkness. First light was still an hour away. The stillness of his quiet bedroom unnerved him a little but he continued anyway. He lowered his head, “Lord, please, please forgive me” he said, this time with a little more urgency as he thought about all the times he’d sinned this past week – looking at a woman with a lustful heart, drinking too much, sneaking away to a card game at the bar just outside of town; more lustful thoughts towards women. By this time his eyes were firmly closed shut out of reverence and supplication. “Lord, I know I ain’t no good without you. I know that all I do is sin all the time, I just can’t help it. Please Jesus, won’t’chu save me?” R. J. asked meekly, his voice horse with emotion at the guilt he felt. He hadn’t been any more sinful this week than any other week, but the thought of disappointing God, of sinning repeatedly had left him racked with guilt – again. His eyes were still closed, his fists clenched as he sprawled his long frame out on the floor in his room, naked and face down in the carpet; an act of total surrender before God. “Lord!” he croaked, barely able to make audible sounds as the guilt had firmly set into his heart. “I feel horrible, I’ve let’chu down, I know I have, I can’t help but sin. Please, please help me t’ not to sin no more. I know what I do’s wrong and offends you but I jus’ can’t help it.” R. J. laid there, quiet and unmoving, sprawled out on the carpet in his room, waiting for the Holy Spirit to come upon him, free his heart from his sins and his mind from condemnation. He hated this. He hated sinning but he was too weak to do otherwise. He was tired of living this way. He laid on the floor of his bedroom for about an hour until the sun came up, emotionally raw and empty, but slowly feeling better. The as the guilt resided with the rising sun, replaced by the return of his normal thoughts, God’s grace seemed nowhere to be found. But at least he’d gotten right with the Lord. Again. … R. J. was walking to church like he did every Sunday morning. He loved the big white bundle of steam that came out of his mouth every time he exhaled. It was one of those rare crisp and clear fall mornings in Oregon, piercing bright light, free of the burdens of rain and fog. The leaves were showing off their full range of colors, bright reds, yellows, and browns. The rising sun illuminated his 7:00 a.m. hike from his house in the hills, about two miles away from the church. The early morning was still and silent, the town and the day not yet fully awake. R. J. always preferred to walk to church on Sundays rather than drive. The fresh air gave him time to think, reflect, and get in touch with the Holy Spirit so that he’d be able to get the congregation saved. Occasionally R. J. softly sang bits and pieces of his favorite hymns and worship songs. This morning he realized he was trying to remember a new worship song he’d heard on the radio. It was strange it had stuck with him, since he wasn’t one of those guitar players who was acquainted with every song under the sun, and he wasn’t in the habit of chasing after new tunes just because they were new. R. J. cut quite the peculiar figure walking down the gravel road, clutching his cased red guitar, his old flapjack hat pulled low over his ears and his bushy reddish beard sticking out in all directions. R. J.’s long, loping gait and his tall, pencil-thin frame made his shadow look like one of those wind-up jack-in-the-boxes that had just popped. His shoulders mechanically moved up and down in a slightly off, disjointed way. When he was in high school, he figured out how to turn his long, shambling frame to his advantage when Coach Willis taught him how to do the long jump. He was one of the best long jumpers in the Columbia Gorge and even placed at state one year. Suddenly, a Steller’s Jay’s harsh high-pitched cackle cried out from his right, interrupting his thoughts. R. J. looked up and saw the bird’s black-and-brownish head about three-quarters of the way up an oak tree, serenading the world with its morning hollering. R. J. didn’t care much for Steller’s Jays—their calls sounded more like caterwauling to him. He preferred the nice mellow warble of a swallow. However, he did admire that the Steller’s Jay was crafty enough to mimic other birds, like the red-shouldered hawk, all in an effort to scare off predators. R. J. liked the way that the bird could use its voice to get other creatures to believe it was something other than a plain old Steller’s Jay. …. Ronald James Townshend Jr. grew up about halfway between the church and where he lived now, just outside of town in the foothills of Oak Hill. His father, Ronald Sr., was a mechanic, good at fixing farm equipment, while his mother, Millie, had stayed at home tending to R. J. and his six older siblings. The family lived off of the meager earnings from Ronald Sr.’s mechanic shop and the bit of profit Millie made from farming the family’s homestead. The Townshend family history had been rooted firmly in Catholicism, but the roots started to die in the 1960s after Vatican II. Ronald Sr. felt like the church stopped standing up for God’s teachings and, thought the Pope was giving in to the hippies and beatniks by allowing priests to protest the Vietnam War, a real travesty and a betrayal of folks like Ronald Sr., who had fought and bled during WWII. It felt like the Pope was betraying his sacred duty. So by the time R. J. was born in 1970, the family found Pentecostalism to be the true embodiment of the Holy Scriptures, with its passion for saving people, condemning sin and sinners to hell, and experiencing the Fruits of the Spirit. By the time R. J. was in high school, Ronald Sr. was a lay pastor leading the congregation to revival every Wednesday night at the Church of Apostolic Faith in Jesus Christ, located just on the edge of Oak Hill. Ronald Sr. would vigorously implore the church to confess their sins and repent so as not to end up in the fiery lake of hell, eternally separated from Jesus Christ. Every Wednesday Ronald Sr. would speak out in front of the congregation, boldly proclaiming his faith, and the Lord would use him to save the congregation. Listening to his father preach left R. J. in awe of the power of the Gospel and the lengths people would go to experience it. Ronald Sr. would shout at the congregation, “The world’ll tell ye the devil don’t exist, he ain’t real, he’s justa figment of your imagination or some ol’ crazy old time religion that only holy rollers and trash believe in.” He spit out the word figment with contempt. “Well, I’m here t’ tell you that such a statement is from the devil himself! From the fiery pits-a hell! Repent! Don’tchu ever, ever, ever pay the devil no mind! In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was wit’ God. You is gonna die in the flesh someday. Do’you know Jesus? Is you saved? ’Cause if you ain’t, you is goin’ straightta hell. It’s black-and-white. The Lord will separate the wheat from the chaff, the sheep from the wolves. Is you a sheep? I’m here ta tell ya tonight that if you ain’t saved, you ain’t a sheep. “But fear not, for God so loved the whole entire world that he gave his only begotten son, and whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life. Do you want everlasting life? Do you want a life lived in the Spirit of the Lord? Well, then, get down on your knees and pray! Pray that God will save your soul! Pray that God will forgive you of your sins! Pray that God will banish all traces of evil from your heart! Pray that God will bless you with the gifts of the Holy Spirit that you might be able to speak to him in tongues.” When he was seventeen years old, R. J. got saved one Wednesday night when his father was urging the congregation to repent and seek the Holy Spirit. Though he’d heard his father give similar sermons countless times, for whatever reason, this one stuck. He didn’t remember the exact words that his father used, but he remembered feeling a sense of warmth and hope comfort him. He couldn’t explain it really, but on that night, the Holy Spirit left him a weepy mess, crying out to the Lord in worship. He suddenly felt lightheaded, but his body didn’t move. It was like he was looking down on himself from above. His heart was burning hot, and he felt a sense of peace he’d never felt before or since. R. J. loved getting saved. He would get saved again and again, often after a particularly long bout with lust or pornography, or depression. But the Lord was always good to him, always forgave him, always saved him, though it never felt quite like it did that first time and lately it hadn’t felt like much at all. R. J. started playing guitar at about the same time he got saved for the first time. He played by himself for a couple of months, learning chords and playing hymns along with the Gaither Family old time radio broadcasts. … “Praise the Lord!” Reverend Carter bellowed. “Praise the Lord! Can I get an amen?” “Ay-men, Rev’nd, hallelujah,” the congregation replied. “It is a good day to worship the Lord, is it not?” “Sure is, Rev’nd!” “I’ve got a fire in my stomach today, a fire that is only from the Holy Spirit.” Reverend Carter clutched an old beat-up microphone in one hand and clasped at his heart with the other. It was eight fifty-nine, one minute before church was supposed to start, but Reverend Carter was already getting himself worked up. As he continued to whip the congregation into frenzy, talking about the need to expel the week’s sin, he started pacing back and forth across the worn stage. With every staccato phrase that burst from his mouth, his voice grew louder and louder and he started pacing, flying back and forth across the stage. “And the blood of Jesus is as real today as it was when the Jews shed it two thousand years ago, and that blood is just as good today as it was yesterday and as it will be tomorrow. Amen!?” “Ay-men, Rev’nd!” “Praise you, Jesus!” Mrs. Vanderpool cried with her hands lifted high. As Reverend Carter continued his Sunday morning ritual with his usual command for repentance in the face of the advances by the devil himself, R. J. couldn’t help but let his mind wander, thinking about leaving town for a bit, maybe heading down South to somewhere warm, maybe trying something new. He’d been listening to Reverend Carter deliver some form of this sermon every Sunday for the past fifteen years. Every week was largely the same. Repent, rebuke the devil, throw yourself at alter of the Lord, and beg for mercy. Anyone who didn’t do this was liable to end up in hell, eternally separated from Jesus. God only gives so many second chances. You have free will for a reason, and if you don’t make the most of it, then the devil will. It wasn’t that R. J. disagreed with what Reverend Carter was preaching, or that he wanted to start backsliding or something. It was just that after hearing these threats of damnation every Sunday year after year, they didn’t seem as serious and as real as they once did. R. J. didn’t feel like repenting this morning, but was still afraid that failing to do so would somehow land him in hell if he weren’t careful. Frankly, R. J. had stopped feeling close to God, and going through machinations to get saved every Sunday wasn’t helping. This made it hard to go up on stage and pretend that he was into it, that he was examining deep in his soul, confessing all of his sins and getting ready to be saved. Maybe he needed to take some time and try something else. Maybe he just needed to try harder. “R. J.! R. J. Townshend, why don’tchu come on up here!” Reverend Carter shouted, startling R. J. out of his daydream. “Bring that red guitar o’ yours. It’s time to praise the Lord!” Reverend Carter said, emphasizing the word praise long and hard, like an auctioneer or used-car salesman would. “Church, are you ready to worship the Lord? Are you ready to repent? Are you ready to fall on your faces before our lord and savior Jesus Christ? The Holy of Holies, the Alpha and Omega, the Great Lion? The Slayer of Sin? The Messiah? I hear the Lord telling me there is sin in our midst this morning—confess it! Repent! Get on your knees and pray to God for your salvation! Stop backsliding! Our God is a good God, but a God whose angry wrath must be satisfied. “I need a prayer. I need a song. I need the voices of this church to carry my prayers to Jesus. I need you to worship like you’ve never worshiped before!” That was R. J.’s line to start strumming his red guitar, working his way into the chords of “Open the Eyes of My Heart.” As he started strumming, an electricity filled the room. Suddenly, everyone was quiet and focused, swaying to the rhythm of his chord progression, eyes shut in fervent prayer, their communion with God occasionally interrupted by Reverend Carter imploring the congregation to spill their whole souls before the Lord. “Open the eyes of my heart/Open the eyes of my heart/I want to see you,” R. J. crooned softly. By this time, the fervent silent prayers of the congregation were slowly turning vocal, with Mrs. Vanderpool taking the lead, crying out to God, telling him and everyone else how much she needed Jesus and how much of a sinner she was. R. J. repeated this verse four or five times, each time sung with a little more urgency and intensity, all building toward the powerful chorus. The last time through the verse, R. J. played the chords muted, which was the sign to the congregation that the crescendo—the burst of energy found in the chorus—was coming. “To see you high and lifted up/Shining in the light of your glory.” “Yes, praise you, Jesus!” The entire congregation was in ecstasy, hips moving to the rhythm, hands thrown in the air, trying to touch the face of God. People were dancing in the aisle, shouting their fears and praises to God and anyone else who was listening. With so many people praising the Lord, it was hard to tell who was behind the individual voices that would occasionally rise above the cacophony. Even though he’d played these exact same songs in the exact same way virtually every Sunday for as long as he could remember, R. J. still derived some joy from it. Not from the music itself—no, that was stale to him, though he didn’t mind playing things the same way every time. He still found it deeply satisfying to lead others into the arms of the Lord. Sometimes he wished he could try something different, maybe a different song, maybe a different arrangement. But Reverend Carter was a stickler for the Gospel and a stickler for delivering it the same way every time, whether by spoken word or song. Besides, Reverend Carter felt that the way the church conducted services was meeting needs of the congregation and getting people saved, so why mess with it? R. J. understood that it was important to help people experience God’s grace, but he wondered if trying a new song or two might not still get people saved. R. J. proceeded to power through the rest of his set, just like he always did. When he was finished, an exhausted glow emanated from the congregation. An almost sexual glow R. J. thought. As folks took their seats, content and resting in the illumination of the Holy Spirit, Reverend Carter took the stage and delivered another barn-burning sermon about how the wages of sin were death and about the need for repentance and honest, pure living. At the conclusion of the sermon, R. J. got up on stage one last time and led the congregation in a version of “Holy Is the Lord” and then closed with the benediction. Once the song was over, Reverend Carter delivered his own closing and dismissed the congregation with a final prayer. After the service ended, the men lingered in the old sanctuary fellowshipping while the women scurried to the kitchen to prepare for the weekly church potluck. R. J. mostly tried to keep to himself, staying on the stage and breaking down his gear while the men milled around below. He was tired and didn’t feel like talking today; it had taken more effort and energy to get emotionally invested in this morning’s service than normal. All he wanted to was pack up his things, have some of Mrs. Wimmers’s famous greens and fried chicken, and start the long walk home before the rain set in. …. Sunday nights were for drinking. Rising early, walking two miles to church, setting up the musical equipment, practicing, performing sound checks, sitting through a two-hour worship service, breaking down the sound equipment, attending a potluck with the congregation afterward, and then finally making his long walk home left him completely exhausted. He rarely got home before four in the afternoon. It was the same routine every Sunday, at church and at home. After the service, he’d feed Betsy, his old gray-whiskered back lab mix, let her out, turn on the end of the football game, get the flank steak and potatoes out and ready for cooking, and then open his first Coors. Cracking his first wet one was permission to stop thinking for a couple of hours to turn his brain off and stop worrying about things. Worrying how he was going to pay the bills, worrying about whether he really was going to live alone for the rest of his life; to stop worrying about Reverend Carter and the church, and to stop worrying about music and faith. Each beer led to another, to another, to another, and more after that until he finally passed out on the couch, the TV’s white noise on in the background and Betsy sleeping soundly on the floor near him. He’d earned the time to drink, he thought, especially tonight. He’d worked so hard earlier in the day to get himself right with the Lord and get into a position where he could lead the congregation to a place where they’d all get saved. He had arrived at church early that morning and spent the first hour confessing and praying with Reverend Carter before the service started. Salvation was exhausting. Frankly, the whole thing is exhausting, he thought. Just conforming to the expectations of the folks at church and living like you ought to be living wore him down. And getting saved was different—it was much harder, much rawer and more emotional than living like a regular Christian was. Getting saved was guaranteed to take you higher than you’d ever been, right after it took you lower than you’d ever gone. It wasn’t so hard once you got back home, but going to church and getting saved left a guy sore, emotionally drained and spiritually empty. Getting saved meant looking deep into your heart and confessing the sin in it, repenting and begging God for the strength to never sin again—even though deep down you knew that no matter what, you’d sin again and be right back begging for forgiveness next Sunday, and every Sunday after that. Honestly, some Sundays he didn’t feel like getting saved—it was too hard. R. J. loved going to church and leading worship, but it was hard enough that a man deserved a couple of drinks Sunday nights to relax. However, he didn’t dare tell anyone in the congregation about his Sunday night ritual for fear of them judging him and word getting back to Reverend Carter, who was fond of saying, “Drinking alcohol is doin’ the devil’s work for him. Drinkin’ made ye weak, stupid, and ’sceptible to temptation. The Scriptures are very clear—if ye drink, yur a drunkard, and drunkards are separated from God an goin’ to hell.” Following Jesus was hard work, really hard work. R. J. wondered how you could believe so fervently all the time in something you couldn’t see and something that didn’t always answer your prayers, and when it did, you sometimes don’t know it until a long time later. He still believed in faith—in fact, he believed deeply—but it was hard, and he was tired. Tonight felt different. His tiredness was deeper than just his normal Sunday exhaustion; there was something deeper in him that yearned for a break or at least a little grace once in a while. He wished he could talk to someone at the church, but he was afraid he’d be accused of backsliding and not having faith. … Reverend Carter had served as an infantryman in the Vietnam War. He still abided by his strict military upbringing in his appearance: a high and tight haircut (out of respect for himself and his country); a trim and in-shape figure (he did a hundred pushups and sit-ups every night before he went to bed); and an appreciation for the chain of command (he believed in the authority of both the Holy Scriptures and the Church and hated when people questioned either). Reverend Carter also came to faith in the Vietnam War. As he liked to explain it, he was a “backsliding heathen with no purpose in life other’n boozing and whoring around” until the Lord took mercy on him and delivered him from his sins. One day he was listening to the army chaplain deliver a sermon, and all of a sudden, it became clear as day to him that he was a sinner living a horrible, no good life, and if he didn’t repent, he’d be joining the devil in hell before much longer. From that day forward, Reverend Carter was a new man—he swore off booze, whoring, smoking, swearing, and all other vices and instead dedicated himsel to reading the Holy Scriptures and applying them to his life every single day. So far, he’d succeeded—he reckoned he hadn’t backslid once since he got saved twenty years ago. Such a feat wasn’t easy, but anyone could do it. You just had to have faith in the Lord and work hard. Faith wasn’t that complicated—all you had to do was obey. Reverend Carter was a good man, but the Holy Spirit ran hot through him like molten lava, constantly burning out all of the impurities in his body. He didn’t have much time for doubt; simply expressing exhaustion or frustration meant that your faith wasn’t strong enough and you better go repent and make sure you didn’t keep doubting the Lord’s power otherwise you were liable to backslide your way into Hell. The Scriptures were very clear: repent and obey, even if it hurts. The reason why it took the Israelites so long to get to the Promised Land was because they lost their faith. As Reverend Carter told it, the Israelites were all crying and sniffling like a bunch of ungrateful little cowards, always demanding more from God, never trusting his providence or his provision. Rather than pray, and get themselves right with the Lord, the Israelites lost their faith and repeatedly made fools out of themselves and their families by building false idols, never trusting, never really loving or repenting. As Reverend Carter said, it was a miracle that God let those lousy Israelites into the Promised Land at all. … That morning, Reverend Carter had preached his message of absolute faith with extra piss and vinegar. He got himself worked into lather, as he did when he was really feeling the Holy Spirit. He was one of those preachers who used the whole stage, like an actor, pacing back and forth, jabbing his arms into the air for emphasis, using the whole of his body to communicate the urgency of the Gospel to the congregation, and willing them to salvation. His face was already beat red, and the vein above his left temple pulsating so wildly R. J. was sure you could see it from the back row of the sanctuary. Sweat poured down Reverend Carter’s face and he stopped every few minutes to wipe it with his handkerchief before carefully and meticulously folding it back into a perfect square and putting in back in the back pocket of his slacks. He did this even when he was completely lathered up. He’d stop hollering and shouting for a moment and look around the sanctuary as he folded and tucked his handkerchief slowly back in his pocket, trying to extract maximum drama. Reverend Carter had been really on a roll, completely enraptured with the Holy Spirit to the point that it appeared he hadn’t taken a breath in about five minutes. Suddenly, he stopped dead, transforming from a loud, gesticulating wild man into a statue, still as the night and cold and deadly as stone. It wasn’t clear if he was still breathing. He turned his head to the side, body still firmly rooted and still on the stage. His voice went low, really low, almost to a whisper, as if he could barely summon the energy to force the words out of his gullet. He called Mr. Wimmers out in front of the whole congregation for backsliding and not having enough faith. Mr. Wimmers, a brick mason, had lost his job earlier in the week and told Reverend Carter that he wasn’t sure if he and Mrs. Wimmers would be able to give their tithe this week. Reverend Carter would hear none of it, instead saying that Mr. Wimmers needed to repent and confess his backsliding and his lack of faith in God’s provision and ask God to have mercy on him for his weakness. Reverend Carter also said that Mrs. Wimmers needed to repent, that she didn’t support her husband right last week, and as a result, his faith wasn’t strong and he’d started backsliding. Something about listening to Reverend Carter dress Mr. Wimmers down in front of the whole congregation for backsliding didn’t sit right with R. J. It felt harsh to him. After all, the man had just lost his job. Surely God would show Mr. Wimmers a little grace. “Sumbody here today don’t have no faith!” Reverend Carter bellowed as he rose out of his silent crouch and resumed pacing around the stage from side to side, his arms shooting in different directions, acting as extensions of his wild mind, acting out his insanity. “Sumbody here today’s backsliding, don’t believe in the Good Lord’s provision. Sumbody here today’s just plain weak, just like the disciples in the boat who lost their faith and cried out to Jesus ta save ’em from the storm,” he said in a mocking tone, hands clasped together in faux piety. “‘Jesus, save us, save us!’ they whimpered. ‘We don’t believe like you told us to. Come save us.’ Well, church, we got sumbody like that in our midst here today. Sumbody who don’t trust the Lord’s promises when the storm comes. Instead he whimpers like a dog. His faith melts like an ice cream cone in the hot July sun. It’s jus’ pathetic. Jus’ pathetic, I tell ya!” Reverend Carter’s said in a biting tone. “Mr. Wimmers! The Lord’s speaking to you today! Yous decided you wasn’t gonna tithe today, didn’t you?” Mr. Wimmers fidgeted in his pew, shoulders slumping, head bowed in embarrassment at being called out in front of the entire congregation. He continued to shirk down lower and lower, like he was melting. The silence was starting to grow uncomfortable, it felt like hours but was merely seconds until finally Mr. Wimmers meekly responded, “Yes, Rev’d, ’tis true. As you know, the boss laid me off this week. I ain’t got no income. The missus and I are struggling to just pay the bills. The electric bill is late again; if I don’t pay, the electric company told me they’ll shut it off—ain’t nothing I can do about it.” Mr. Wimmers’s voice barely raised above a strained whisper; the shame and stress of the job loss must have taken his dignity and confidence away from him. Mrs. Wimmers could be heard sobbing in the background at the tragedy of it all, but the congregation sat there in stilled silence, equally fixated on what was happening while simultaneously looking down and away, silently praying that Reverend Carter wouldn’t make a spectacle of them next. The tension, embarrassment, and shame were so thick and sticky you could feel it on your skin. Everyone was waiting to see how Reverend Carter would respond to Mr. Wimmers’s meek and broken confession. Reverend Carter just stood there, as still as a stone statute, his eyes closed in fervent communication with God, hands clasped together in perfect supplication. “Walter, the Lord loves you, but you should fear him. You’re a sinner, and you sinned against him today by not having faith that he’ll provide for all of your needs just like he does for the sparrow and the lilies. “Therefore I say unto you, ‘Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, the body than raiment?’” Reverend Carter continued to recite the Holy Scripture from memory, body completely still, eyes closed, hands clasped in front of him in pious dedication, face clenched in holy grimace. “‘Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.’ “Walter, are ye not much better than they?” Mr. Wimmers raised his head from his bowed shame, his eyes slowly raising to focus on Reverend Carter—first the reverend’s prayer hands, then his closed eyelids. “Water, have you ever considered the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin,” Reverend Carter continued, still unmoving. Mr. Wimmers’s lips were now starting to tremble from the guilt and shame he felt at that moment. He wished he could trust the Lord, but the fact was that he was scared. Suddenly, Reverend Carter’s eyes fluttered open, his body jolted like he’d been struck by lightening or the Holy Ghost himself. “Walter, oh ye of little faith!” he shouted, his hands and face raised to the heavens. His feet finally were moving, and he was walking across the stage, down the stairs, and right toward Mr. Wimmers, who was sitting in the fourth pew, center row, just to the left. The whole congregation was static, simultaneously scared and awed in anticipation of the Holy Spirit pouring out over Reverend Carter, certain to spill over onto them at any minute. Reverend Carter slowly approached Mr. Wimmers, the reverend’s face emotionless Mr. Wimmers’s face and body frozen in fear and uncertainty. Reverend Carter slowly placed his hand on Mr. Wimmers’s shoulder and continued his recitation of the Kings James version of the Bible: “Walter, therefore, take no thought, saying, ‘What shall we eat? Or, What shall we drink? Or, wherewithal shall we be clothed?’ Wherefore, Walter,” Reverend Carter said, continuing to use Mr. Wimmers’ first name for both dominance and emphasis, “‘if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast in the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?’” Mr. Wimmers suddenly burst into tears; he was a scared and broken man who had been stripped of all dignity and pride. “Yayayes Rev’d.” He sniffled, his body convulsing; soon he was gulping for air “I just want to please the Lord. Have mercy on me,” he managed to say finally, as he lowered his head again in total defeat and supplication. Reverend Carter kept his hand firmly on Mr. Wimmers’s shoulder, gently rubbing it for comfort. Reverend Carter was silent as he slowly raised his head and scanned the congregation like a shepherd scanning his flock, stopping to make eye contact with parishioners as his eyes worked across the sanctuary. “Church,” he said in a slow and controlled but powerful voice, “Church, this is a broken man, someone who’s faith has failed him, someone who cries out to God to save him.” Reverend Carter enunciated every syllable as he spoke. “But church, have no fear, for we serve an awesome God.” His eyes closed in reverence, and his fists clenched and raised toward heaven. … TO BE CONTINUED Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others. Between The Cracks As autumn gets a firm foothold on the Appalachian coal country, the old man's mood seems to change to one of vigilance as he looks ahead to what will soon be required to get by. Requirements that seldom change and always bring a melancholy type of purpose to his life by offering up the carrot of another spring if he gets it right. Along the river the leaves have changed and the chill has set deeper with each passing day, bringing the time when being apart becomes personal and selfish. His infatuation with things like good land, clean water, and air, seems rather bothersome to those who are in power. To them he might be considered an outsider. But he was here first and he knows that the real outsiders are the ones who dig and carry away their finds to an appetite in far off places. Knowing there is little that he can do about it, he tells himself that it's ok, for he has looked all over and even with the alienation this is the place that he understands most. He can feel the right to be here in the pushback of his steps through mountain orchards with rotting apples lying among the fallen leaves on a ground marked by deer tracks. A ground ready for another season of sleep. His hair is white now but his step is still light enough to hear the rustle of wildlife in the thickets as he nears. They are also trying to get it right. Neither too hard nor too soft, it is a good place to dream and prepare. Long ago, when he didn’t know how to stay away from those consumptive masters of men that longed for his mountain’s riches, he embarked upon the flight that eventually led him back to this land and the rich colors of dying leaves. Now, hardly an ending of the colors goes by that he doesn’t remember how he came to take that journey. It all began as a boy wandering the coal digs, watching what he thought belonged to him get shipped away. And it seemed then that all things were destined to leave that place. *** A huge grey coal truck with a plume of coal dust streaming from the black hump of its load barreled down the narrow road toward 10 year old Danny. It gave him just enough time to turn his back as it blew by and showered him with fine cinders. Every morning the trucks were part of his trek to the school that was located up a hollow a half mile beyond. And every morning, for those few seconds that he was buffeted by the trucks he would feel as angry and insignificant as the coal camp where he lived. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of the driver high in the cab, grasping the steering wheel like a machine gun as if he were in some sort of war. One thing was for sure, if he tripped and fell at the wrong moment he would end up squashed flat and probably no one would even know until they finally had to scrape him up. Beside the road the creek flowed it’s usual mustard brown from the rain and mine waste that found its way there. Out in the middle of the passing waters a big double size mattress was stuck on one of the rocks and the banks were littered with cans and bottles. No wonder not a living thing could be found there. When Danny was a little younger he used to fish there until he finally realized that the only things living in that sludge were just in his imagination. Then he knew why the miners would joke with him about catching the big one. And he had felt foolish. Now, with all pretend left for the snot noses not old enough to see the truth, the creek was only good for shooting at bottles or rats with his BB gun. That and standing by the road at night, guessing from their headlights what kind of car was coming was about all there was to do for people like him. He had never lived in any one place long enough for it to really matter so he didn’t feel deprived, he just wanted out of the way of the lousy coal trucks. With a dad that had black lung and couldn’t work the mines any more and a mom that was always down in her back, his wish didn’t seem real likely to happen anytime soon. They were squatting on mine land, living in an old shack they had patched up, and there just didn‘t seem the need to go anywhere else. When times would try to nudge them out of their squatter's shack there would always be talk about Detroit and making cars but they had been able to wait most of those nudges out so far. That was fine with Danny since he couldn’t see himself around all those Yankees and their fancy ways to begin with. No sir, when he left he wanted to go South where the girls were clean. And where Elvis Presley came from. Until then he reckoned that he would just stay around his little West Virginia hollow and learn the best way to do that. His thoughts of one day getting away from the soot spouting trucks were suddenly interrupted by the distant wail of a siren. It had suddenly turned damp and through the early morning mist and drizzle the muted sound of the siren reminded him of the mournful call of a loon on a pretty lake over in Virginia where he and his dad used to camp. That was back before black lung got in the way and Danny saw first hand what the mines could do to a person. He well knew that the siren had nothing to do with pretty lakes, or pretty anything for that matter. It meant that there was an emergency up at the Benwick # 2 mine, which was up the same hollow as his school. Hardly a month went by that there was not something going wrong up there. Mostly it was roof falls from trying to dig too much coal without spending enough on roof bolts and mine props. And when that caused the mountain to come down on a man it made for worse than a kid hit by a coal truck. His dad used to say that maybe black lung saved his life by getting him out of the mines. But that was before he started spitting up blood every morning. He didn’t say that any more. Sometimes after a roof fall it took days before they could even find anybody. And when they did find them the dead were so messed up that they couldn’t even open the box at the funeral to say goodbye. That’s one of the reasons that he hated mining and knew he would never do it. Saying goodbye had always been important to him, he was good at it, and he didn’t want to be cheated out of one of the things he did well. Detroit and making cars with the Yankees would come before that. Up ahead he saw a small crowd beginning to gather at the little camp store. Some were miners from the graveyard shift who always stopped by there to unwind before going on home and the rest were families trying to get some word of what had happened up at the #2. When he got to the store he stood off to the side of the crowd, watched, and listened until he learned that there had been an explosion and roof fall. The faces of the people waiting there told him that it was bad, women quietly sobbed while most of the men, angry and agitated, were yelling about how the mine was only using them to make money and didn’t care if they got sick or killed. One old man who always hung around there in a wheelchair while sipping from a jar was telling anybody who would listen how he lost his legs in the mines and how the company kicked him and his family out of their company house because he couldn’t work any more. Didn’t matter that he offered to pay rent, they wanted the house for the able bodied who could mine coal. Danny had heard his story before and continuously lived it with his dad and, like many of the others, didn’t need it. He wished he would be quiet. The few kids there among the crowd were younger than Danny. They looked scared and lost. For a lot of them it was probably their first time. The adults not yelling and cursing the mine owners or sobbing into their scarves just stood by the road, quietly chain smoking as they stared up towards the entrance of the hollow. A couple of ambulances screamed by on their way to the nearest doctor at Whitesville while another one went the other direction towards the miners hospital over the mountain at Beckley. Then after what seemed like a long while a convoy of three ambulances, escorted by a sheriff’s car and a state police cruiser, slowly came out of the hollow and turned towards Beckley and the only morgue in the area. A hush suddenly fell over the crowd and it seemed like time was frozen as they stared after the departing ambulances, as if looking for some unknown sign that could free them to live again. One that only they would recognize. After a while Danny broke from the gathering and continued on up the road towards school and the hollow where the dead and injured had just come from. When he got to the bridge that crossed the creek to where most of the company housing was he was joined by Billy Naven. Billy lived in that part of the camp where the houses were usually painted and a little better than most of those along the roads and hollows. It was where a lot of the younger miners lived. “Guess you might be lucky your dad’s got black lung,” Billy said, “could have been him in one of those ambulances.” “Yeah, maybe so but we ain’t got no fit house like you got either,” Danny replied. “What about your dad, he OK?” “He don’t work that shift no more,” Billy said. “He’s graveyard now, just got home a while ago. He’s ok ‘cept he’s always too tired to do anything when he ain’t working. We used to go and do stuff like fish or watch the football games down at the high school on Friday nights, but now it’s like he’s just not interested in anything but TV and a six-pack of beer.” Danny knew what Billy meant. The life of the coal miner was pretty much defined as far as he was concerned too. He had seen what had happened to his dad. One day when he had ask him about it, his dad had told him that young men who got married and entered the mines would be wore out before they had finished their thirties. Danny learned that life in the coal fields was not very happy but it was where he was and where he had managed to establish a feeling of belonging to something. So it was better than nothing and he figured that one day he would get out. Heck, he was just a kid. He had time. He asked Billy, “You getting out of here when you grow up?” Seeming to have never considered the possibility, Billy thought about what to say. “I don’t know, where would I go? Every place else thinks we’re just a bunch of dumb hillbillies.” “Yeah I know, but maybe they’re right, Billy. Maybe staying here proves that they are right. I mean there ain’t much to do here except play a little high school ball and then go in the mines. I saw dad spit up blood again this morning and when he saw me looking he told me, `Don’t you ever mine coal, Danny boy,` and I ain’t. I don’t know how but when my schooling is over I’m getting out of here.” “I got a cousin from over Marsh Fork way,” Billy said, “ he joined the air force and got out plenty fast enough. He’s over in Germany now seeing the world and drinking beer with those blonde girls, like the ones in the magazines. He says they all love Americans and can’t tell where you're from. All they care about is that your American.” “Really?” Danny thought about the poster of Uncle Sam pointing his finger at him down by the store and decided that the air force wouldn’t do for him. Maybe the Marines. They have those pretty uniforms and they’re the toughest, everybody knows. “What about you,” Danny ask, “you think you might join the Air Force?” “I ain’t smart enough probably,” Billy moaned. “My cousin graduated high school and I’m having a hard time making it through the fourth grade. Maybe the mines is all I can get come that time.” “Aw, come on Billy, maybe not the Air Force but maybe the Marines. You and me could join together when we get big. Audie Murphy was only sixteen when he joined the army during the big one. They wanted all they could get then, smart or dumb. Maybe we’ll get into another one and they’ll be begging us to sign up. What do you think, Billy? Think maybe we could do that? Think of all the fun we could have traveling around in our clean new uniforms. Wouldn’t that be something? Sure beats mining coal and spitting up blood.” Billy seemed to light up a little bit. “Yeah maybe we could get in another fight and then they would need me. I wouldn’t have to be so smart. And it sure would be nice us going together. It’s sure something to think about, ain’t it?” “Sure is,” Danny said as they turned up the dirt road into the hollow. It had rained hard the night before and the road had about two inches of mud on it that sucked at their shoes as they trudged up the grade. Every now and then a coal truck came down the hill splattering mud and driving them almost into the ditch. A few miners were still walking out of the hollow, carrying their dinner buckets and looking like the walking dead. Usually they joked around with the kids and tried to put on a little fun but that day they didn’t seem to even notice the boys, or themselves for that matter. Big black sticks of human figures with two sunken white spots for eyes that saw nothing, they passed the two boys as if they weren‘t even there. Danny looked at Billy and could tell that he was scared. Death hung heavy in the air. As they topped the first muddy grade up the hollow the sooty white wooden school house, perched on a little flat place against the mountainside, came into view. With the flag pole as its only adornment it wasn’t much to look at. Since it only had three rooms made up of two grades each and one large room for the lunch cafeteria, there were only three teachers and that included the principal. The kids that went there were mainly from the mining families where education was simply a resting place before entering the mines. There was not much difference in most of the kids but there was one kid, name of Alan Stover, who was different. For one thing he rarely came to school and had failed sixth grade so many times that he was almost old enough to quit school altogether. Perhaps for that reason he was also the toughest. But Alan, when he did come to school, didn’t mingle with the other kids much and even though he was the toughest he didn’t bully. With Danny he seemed to let down the wall he kept around himself and sometimes when Danny was alone he would come up to him and ask questions about school or some of the places Danny had been, like he was interested in what Danny had to say. Hard to explain, but he acted like Danny could help him with his life or something. When Billy and Danny arrived at school they could see that Alan was absent again because he wasn’t in his usual spot outside smoking and waiting for the bell to ring. But everyone could see his cousin, Butch Stover, standing on the school porch and checking lunch bags to see if he could get a free treat. Butch did bully and most kids tried to stay away from him when they could. Although cousins, Butch and Alan were worlds apart when it came to how they treated the other kids. Alan was smaller and by the way he dressed Danny could tell that he had less than most, yet he still held himself over the others with a quiet pride that went beyond his dress. Butch, who had failed at least once too, was bigger and enjoyed using his size to push others around but he never messed with Alan who simply ignored him. It seemed that Butch also knew when Alan wasn’t around because at those times he would get meaner and that morning was no different as Billy and Danny somehow snuck by and into the school while Butch was taking some first grader’s Baby Ruth. When the time for recess came they had to stay inside because of the rain and mud. Other than Billy, who was a grade lower than him and in another room, Danny didn’t have any real friends to talk to and he felt trapped in the small crowded room. Outside recess he could play marbles, talk to Billy, or just run around and choose the kids that he wanted to be with. Plus there was an old basketball hoop out back. But it didn’t get used much because the only basketball was flat and nobody bothered to fix it. About the only thing Danny could do during recess on rainy days was watch the girls who all stayed in one part of the room doing their private talks and glancing at the boys occasionally. A couple of them were pretty. He didn’t know that girls could be so interesting much before, and now that he knew they seemed to not want anything to do with him. Still it was something to watch them and see if he could catch them looking back. The other boys didn’t seem all that interested in girls but Danny liked to see what kind of dresses they wore and even on such a rainy day, in their muddy shoes and socks, their legs were still pretty and fun to just look at. However he had to be careful to hide his looks by peeking over a library book that he pretended to read. It rained pretty near all that day and when the final bell rang it was so nice to get out of there, even with the slushy mud all over the place. On his way home Danny could usually avoid Butch by getting him in sight and then maneuvering to stay behind as they came out of the hollow. But this day Butch had decided to stop along the side of the hollow and hurl insults and threats as the other kids walked by. When he saw Danny his eyes lit up and there was no way for Danny to avoid him short of turning around and going back to school. But he couldn’t even do that. That would only piss Butch off and he would be sure to come after him. So Danny fixed his eyes on the muddy road just ahead of his steps and continued on, wishing he could disappear. When he drew even with Butch he heard the sarcastic bait. “Hey teachers boy, are you going home to your momma?” Danny pretended not to hear him and kept going with his heart beating a mile a minute. “Hey, Daniel! I’m talking to you. You’d better stop and give me an answer or I’m going to smear you and your fancy new jacket in the mud.” Butch was now walking along to stay even with him. Danny had just been given a new white jacket by his mom and he was terrified that Butch would throw him down in the mud so he stopped and fearfully looked up. “I’m just going home like everybody else. I have to feed the dog and make sure he stays in the yard,” Danny said. Desperate to keep Butch from following him home he quickly continued, “He’s a mean dog and mom and dad can’t handle him but he does whatever I tell him to do.” Butch seemed to consider that for a moment then walked up close and said, “Well let me tell you something smart ass. If I see you walking this way tomorrow I’m going to kick your ass up between your shoulder blades. You better find another way home you little piss ant. You got it?" Danny felt a surge of relief when he realized that he was going to get out of there without getting beat up. “I got it," he said and quickly put distance between himself and Butch who was now strutting down the road, creating a wide path among the other kids. Situated in a half hidden gully over the bank of the muddy road sat a derelict coal company shack not too unlike the one Danny lived in. It was just a couple of rooms with no running water and a coal fired stove. In front there was a long dilapidated porch and out back beside a black stream of mine wash was the toilet or outhouse as most called it. An old broken down couple squatted there and somehow managed to survive. Maybe they were kin to Alan Stover and maybe not but some days when he was supposed to be in school Alan would walk the railroad tracks with an old burlap sack and collect the big lumps of coal that had fallen from the passing trains and lug them up the hollow to the old couples shack. This had been such a day and there on the front porch of that shack, unseen by either Butch or Danny, stood Alan. He had seen and heard the whole thing between Butch and Danny. All that evening Danny worried about Butch and getting beat up, then finally accepted his fate since there was no way he could avoid it. He would just do the best he could. Maybe Butch would forget about it or find somebody else to pick on. The next day in the classroom where Danny’s fifth grade sat on one side of the room and Butch’s sixth grade sat on the other, Danny tried to avoid looking at Butch but a couple of times he couldn’t help it. When Butch had his attention he would slowly smile as he wagged his finger at him. That caused Danny’s fear to return full force and made him know for sure that it was going to be a very different kind of school day. Something else was different about that day too because in the last row of the sixth graders, half asleep, sat Alan. As the final bell rang and school let out Danny hung back as most of the other kids hustled out the door, across the play yard, and onto the road. He was going slower than usual but it wasn’t long before he saw Butch standing in the same spot as the day before. His heart began to pound. A large group of girls were a little ways behind him as he approached Butch. And behind the girls, out of mind and out of sight, was Alan trailing them all, walking slowly and smoking a cigarette. Danny felt terrible, he had a crush on three of the girls and they were about to see him shamed by Butch. Or worse. When he got to the spot where Butch was waiting he cringed as he heard him say, “Just hold it right there you little twerp." Everybody stopped and Danny could plainly hear the girls giggling which for Butch was too good to be true. He had an audience of girls to show how tough he was. “Didn’t I tell you to not come by here?" “Yeah but there ain’t no other way to go. I have to come by here." Danny felt like throwing his books down and making a run for it but he just couldn’t with Virginia, Nancy, and Peggy Sue watching. He didn’t know what he would do but he couldn’t run. “Well ain’t that just too bad," Butch said as he closed the few feet between them. “Looks like I’m going to have to kick your butt." Danny’s eyes filled with tears as he stood there waiting for it to begin. The girls turned silent and drew closer together. Then suddenly before anything could happen everyone was surprised by a loud voice as Alan stepped from behind the girls. “You ain’t gonna kick nobody's butt Butch Stover." Alan had a bow legged way of walking and he was shorter but as he strode up to Butch and glared up into his face Butch seemed to lose two sizes. “Hey, Alan what you doin’ here? I’m just having a little fun with momma’s boy here. Don’t mean nothing. I wouldn’t waste my time with him.” Alan was small but his clenched hands at his sides were the largest Danny had ever seen on a boy. “Well why don’t you try me.” Alan said, “That be a waste of your time too, Butch?" “Hell no, Alan. Everybody knows you don’t take nothin from nobody," Butch replied, so scared that he was actually shaking. “You’re a big tough guy, Butch, always picking on those smaller than you. I’m smaller than you, come on, pick on me," Alan kept on. There was silence for perhaps five seconds as the two looked at each other. Then as fast as a rattler’s strike Alan’s left hand opened up and swung around to the side of Butch’s face. The smack sounded like a 22 rifle had been fired off, making the girls gasp and everyone but Alan jump. Then with his coal black curls hanging down over his forehead, his jaw jutted forward, and his hands back fisted at his sides in a flash, he continued to glare up at Butch as he pushed on. “Do it Butch. You want it, come and get it right now!" Butch’s lower lip quivered as his face twisted and then he began to openly cry. Alan glared at him for a few seconds then slowly looked to the ground, spat and said, “That’s what I thought." Then he turned to Danny like he was talking to his dog or something and said, “Go on home Danny, he won’t bother you no more." As they continued on out of the hollow, each with their own thoughts, nothing more was said. And when Danny chanced a look back, there stood Butch in the same spot, his clenched fists at his sides, his head hanging and crying so hard that his whole body was jerking with the tears. Butch never bothered Danny after that. In fact he seemed to change. His bullying fell by the wayside as he finished up grade school and finally moved on up to the high school down the road. Danny followed him there and onto the athletic field a year later where Butch ended up blocking for him. The time Butch was put down by Alan was never mentioned but Danny never forgot it. Like a snap shot he could always recall that face off between them amid the hard life of the coal camp. He didn’t see Alan around much after that partly because Alan never made it to high school. But Danny knew that he stayed out of the coal mines because he heard that he got into the army and was killed in one of the early Vietnam battles while helping the South Vietnamese Army fight. Billy never made it through high school either but, like they had hoped, by the time Danny graduated the country was begging for enlistments so he and Billy joined the marines on the buddy plan and shipped out of the coal fields. They stayed together through training but got split up when they were sent to Vietnam. Danny ended up around Marble Mountain near Da Nang while Billy got sent up north to Khe Sanh where he was killed on Hill 881 during the big battle there. Every time Danny thought of Billy he remembered how excited and happy he had been those many years ago to learn that you didn’t have to be smart to fight in America’s wars. And at the same time he always rued the day that he had taught him that. Butch stayed out of the mines and the war by getting married and moving to California. Seems they got set up out there by some of his wife’s relatives. And last Danny heard, Butch was out there working as a prison guard. Danny, after he got back from the war, wasn’t good for much so he just drifted around picking up jobs as he went. Along the way he met a looker down in a Texas bar that he was tending and got married. That lasted until he killed a man he caught her sleeping with and did a little time. The jury figured the guy deserved killing so Danny only got a couple of years. He thought his wife deserved killing too but had decided that would probably be too costly. *** Now back in the Appalachians, white haired and as far away from most other people and the coal mines as he can get, Danny just quietly gets old as he practices his vigilance for the end of colors. He’s not, nor ever was, what you would call a real contributing member of society. But then the way he learned it, that was for those destined to never return to the Appalachian coal country. D. S. White D. S. White has worked on numerous publications, including children's storybooks, textbooks, anthologies and magazines. He teaches high school and loves the short story format. His collection of short stories, The Land of Words, broke the top 50 best seller list on Amazon. The book is a healthy mixture of speculative and literary pieces, showing off his curiosity for all kinds of storytelling. He was born in the mountains but now lives by the sea. Lessons in the Clouds I There’s a good reason why clouds look different at night than they do in the day. The night is the realm of the Cloudbuyers, those little people who buy clouds to live on. When clouds dissipate, they purchase more from whoever has too many, anywhere clouds are available around the world. Clouds get herded across the sky to build new homes for the families of Cloudbuyers living up above. And when they have clouds multiplying, they sell to whoever they can. This is the way the economy is run in the sky. For Cloudbuyers, there is only one rule: stay above the clouds; beware going below them. Although the Cloudbuyers love the mountains, they are afraid of rainwater. Upon contact with rain, Cloudbuyers explode, something we refer to as thunder and lightning. Water in rivers is usually just as bad, coming from the sky. Water in fruit and from fresh springs has been purified by the earth. It’s safe for Cloudbuyers to enjoy. There’s no sense in questioning any of this. Nature has clearly made it this way. The Cloudbuyers have a long history of residing near the mountains. They only come down to the earth when clouds touch the land in higher altitudes. If the clouds disappear without warning, they have to wait in caves for a chance to return to their homes, hoping it doesn’t rain. Cloudbuyers have been raising families for thousands of years, but their children haven’t grown any wiser. They decide to snatch a boy from the city and bring him back with them. He will teach their children many things, things that only humans know. II In those days, the woods had been torn down to make way for progress. What progress, Sarah couldn’t say. She’d come there to pick fresh apples, but it was too late as the apples were already decaying on the ground. As she hurried across a log stretching over the river it started to rain. The log grew slick and she slipped and fell in the water. A man passing by heard her cry and swam across the river to rescue the girl. Sarah was saved and taken to her mother. The man and woman grew to love each other and between them was born a boy. This boy was a child unlike any other, as innocent as fresh snow falling in the mountains. His name was Jonah. Late one night Jonah was taken away by the Cloudbuyers. They tied him up and took him to the clouds. His father searched for him everywhere, but never saw him again. III “Let me go!” Jonah yelled at the Cloudbuyer. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here. He selected a rock from the rutted trail-side and tossed it, missing the little man altogether. The Cloudbuyer roared at the sky, angry at the boy’s defiance. Jonah jumped back, shielding his ears in terror. The little man snickered at this reaction and danced closer, goading Jonah with a stick. Jonah looked again at the cloud the little man wanted him to step upon. The little man pointed to the children, young Cloudbuyers, waiting in the sky. He jittered from side to side, like a puppet with strings tied to his skeleton. He mimicked a teacher lecturing students and slapping them around. The meaning was clear to Jonah. The Cloudbuyer wouldn’t rest until Jonah taught the children something. “Aw-right. Aw-right,” he said and rolled up his pants. The cloud was soft, not nearly warm enough for Jonah, but the little man wanted him to hurry, to get across the sky and begin the lesson right quick now. A fluff of air tickled Jonah’s heel and he swayed and let out a raucous whoa… After reaching the children he introduced himself. The children looked at him in awe, not comprehending a word he said. Feeling foolish, Jonah hurried back to the mountainside. The little man approached him gently this time, encouraging him to try again. When Jonah would not go, the Cloudbuyer lowered his head and breathed deeply and then gave Jonah a push. Jonah slid across the clouds and fell down in front of the children. They laughed and rolled from side to side, nearly falling off the clouds into the valley below. Jonah was far from convinced he could teach the children anything. He decided this time to try a different approach. He told them a story about his family. They listened with delight. He acted out the parts of his father and his mother. He mimed being his sister. They laughed uncontrollably when he flung back his hair like a girl. After the story was over, Jonah turned to go. He skidded across the clouds and jumped once more onto the mountain. The little man looked at Jonah and bared his teeth in the shape of a smile. And then the Cloudbuyer roared with laughter, a mighty bray. Jonah stumbled back, totally deafened. He waved his arms for mercy and the little man ran away. The Cloudbuyer disappeared into the layer of clouds on the upper ridge of the mountains. Jonah tried to follow him, but got lost. He wandered until he came across a cabin with a bed in it. He had no idea how to go home, and exhausted, he laid down there to sleep. IV Little Mark raised his hand and asked why they had to go to school on Saturday. Jonah explained that they’d had a storm on Monday and school was not in session that day. Little Mark was silent for a moment as Jonah went back to teaching. Then he raised his hand again. He wanted to know why they’d had a storm on Monday. Jonah wondered how long Little Mark would follow this line of reasoning. He was impressed. The boy was only a young Cloudbuyer, about the age of nine years old. He explained that out above the ocean there were currents of hot air and cold air, but he was interrupted. Elysee raised her hand and started speaking rapidly without permission, a habit Jonah hoped wouldn’t spread to the rest of the class. She ran up to the front before Jonah had time to stop her and commenced with giving the class a description of the hot and cold air weather patterns out over the ocean. Of course, weather was easy for the children. They watched it unfolding below them every day. By now the class was heading in a new direction, not the one Jonah had intended, but he let it slide, just to see what would happen. A week ago he’d explained to the children that animals had tails and people didn’t. One boy had raised his hand to tell the class that his mother thought Cloudbuyers used to be monkeys, swinging from branch to branch, way up off the ground. They’d never liked to walk on the earth as humans did. But debating the finer points of evolution wasn’t a path Jonah wanted to go down with a class full of young Cloudbuyer minds. After Elysee finished her speech, Jonah sent her back to her seat, a soft spot on a well-rounded cloud. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Mark would ask the next logical question: How do air currents bring storms to the mountains? Little Mark never did ask and Jonah got through the lesson on time that day. He knew he had to get back to the mountain before nightfall. V In the safety of the cabin, Jonah reflected on his classroom experiences. He was impressed that the children could understand everything so well. They’d learned his language fast. And sometimes there might be a moment when the students comprehended things far greater than anything he taught them. Those were the moments he wished would happen every day. He looked out the window at the mountain-river-valley, and beyond that, what? A town, perhaps? He wondered if they still existed. Years had passed and Jonah was growing older. He worked at a table, shelling nuts. He picked up a nut, cracked the edge on a stone, and pried the nut open. The meat fell out onto the table. The nuts came from a grove he’d discovered on the other side of the mountain. Jonah thought about what he would teach the children tomorrow. Certainly not geography, as they could see the whole world from up above. He couldn’t teach them any business, either. They already knew much more about international trade than he ever would. And not a thing about reading and writing could he teach them. Jonah could hardly read anything at all. He’d only finished a rudimentary education when the Cloudbuyers had snatched him up and taken him away to the clouds. As he looked out at the horizon, he came to realize what he must do. He would teach the children to question things. After all, questions made for the best education. And with questions, they might come to understand that he didn’t belong there. He wanted to go home, but he didn’t know the way. He wanted to see his sister again. VI Many more sunrises appeared and again Jonah met the little man standing at the cloud’s edge. The man kicked and circled and stamped near Jonah’s feet. “Whoa!” Jonah said, but the warning failed to register in the Cloudbuyer’s head. Jonah missed his family. He refused to work for the Cloudbuyers anymore, not unless they met his demands. He was growing tired and wanted to go back to the city. He needed to visit his sister and let her know he was still alive. If they let him go, Jonah promised he would return to the mountains and stay here forever, if only he was allowed to go back home one time. Those were his terms. The little man refused to listen. Jonah stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out some nuts. He offered them to the little man, but the Cloudbuyer only slapped at Jonah’s hand, sending the nuts flying. Jonah stood his ground. The Cloudbuyer let out a loud kek-kek-kek like the angry hawks do and raised his hands to the sky like giant wings. Jonah refused to step on the cloud. They squared off, facing each other. Jonah knew the little man was growing older all the time. And Jonah was growing stronger. He gave the little man a push and the little man took a step back in surprise. Jonah explained that if the Cloudbuyers would let him return to the city, he would bring back books for the children to read. He said he would, but he knew he wouldn’t, because he had no idea how to teach them anything found on a page filled with words. The little man sighed. He nodded and turned and waved for Jonah go. VII The Cloudbuyers provided Jonah with a horse. They’d taken it from a rich man who owned a large mansion in the city. The horse knew the way home and would take Jonah there. Jonah pulled a rope over the horse’s ears and let it fall on the horse’s neck. He swung his leg over the horse’s back and then flicked the rope, urging the horse forward. Down the trail they went, down the mountainside, wandering farther and farther, lower and lower, until the world of the Cloudbuyers was lost from sight, far up above in the sky. In the long days that followed, Jonah admired the land he passed through. The trees had returned, growing so thick in the region that the earth seemed overrun with them. He witnessed the flight of birds of prey and birds being preyed on. In the night, when he stopped to rest, the sound of water falling nearby eased his fears of the dark. After a week the path became a road and the road became a street. Then the town surrounded him on all sides. It was a place of confinement, houses and buildings held down on the earth as if the land had been littered with them by the hand of the busy. People were hurrying and scuffling along the roadways and walkways and up and down the stairways, but with all their activity, none seemed able to escape the limits of the town. It was a place bent on restricting them until they would move about no more. Jonah saw the cemetery decaying. The church bells would not stop ringing with the birthing and wedding and servicing, on the hour every half hour at the quarter of the hour. What was it that made these people all need to keep so close together? He did not know. They took no notice of the world outside them. They could not look up and fathom the meaning of the clouds that filled the skies above them. They knew nothing of the ways of the Cloudbuyers. The horse took Jonah through the town. They stopped before a service entrance, a side gate located in a fence that went around a well-tended lawn surrounding a stone white mansion. A service man inside the fence stopped his tending of the lawn and came to see them. He nodded his head when he saw the horse and he opened the gate. He took them to the rear of the mansion where a stable held other horses. Jonah felt the horse stir beneath him at the smell of home. It was with surprise that the service man opened the door to the loft and with surprise that the service boys threw down a bale of hay into the rack for the horse to nibble on. Jonah slid off the horse’s back and followed the service man into the mansion and there he sat down in a room full of books. They surrounded him on every side. He knew he could not break free of them or the words held tightly on their pages. He waited there for the books to speak and never a word did he think to say. The writing of a word was something he had not done clearly in many years. On the reading table one such book lay open toward him, providing complicated combinations of glyphs and squiggles. They danced in and out of his vision. An educated man, in posture and costume, entered the library to speak with Jonah. He sat down at the reading desk and pulled out a check and asked Jonah his name. “Name? Names, pages, words,” Jonah said, mumbling a fumbled reply. The man was going to ask him to spell what he’d uttered, but then thought better of it. He wrote something indiscernible on the check and passed it over to Jonah. Jonah looked dumbly at the paper in his hand. He’d returned the horse, but had no idea it was worth something. “I assume you have a car to take you back? You do have a car waiting outside, don’t you? Outside? Shall I have my man fetch the driver and bring it around now?” Jonah waited. “Your car? Is it outside?” “Wh…aa…t?” Jonah said, hardly understanding. He fidgeted in a chair not built to fit him. “I guess you can get back by yourself. I have to say, I do respect a man who doesn’t mind a walk.” “Aw-right. Aw-right,” Jonah said and got up to go. He followed the service man out to the gate. As the service man shut the gate, Jonah looked back into his eyes and heard an expression he could appreciate. “Thank you.” “Thank you, dearly,” he replied. He’d finally made contact with the civilized places in his mind. He was delighted to find he could string together a little something that made him smile and made the service man smile even deeper. In a moment they were laughing together at the simplicity of their lives and the straightforward ways they enjoyed. Out on the road, Jonah turned around to look for his sister. The city towered over him. Fear set in and held him fast. VIII Alone on the street, he’d lost himself in the ways of wondering where the road would take him. The town was a maze laid out before him. He could not find his way in any direction save the direction that took him to another street and then to another one like it and then back to the one before that or maybe to the one he thought about later in a dream. He walked alone in the wind-filled night, the air a little cold, with a wish to be back in the clouds. He missed his Cloudbuyer friends. He’d been sitting at the bottom of a rust-wire fence when he saw her face. A pale stone set against the darkness. The moonlight held her there. Her old face, her face old, a statue in the stillness, she was the only thing he could remember of this patched up world and all its subdivisions. Sarah had been his sister. Her face appeared again next to the street lamppost, swarming with all its light-blotting bugs, half-blinded by the bliss they experienced in the search for the one true road to eternity. She side-smiled unsure and then turned away in indifference. Her face appeared again, looking down at him from above. She was not even sure he should be there, but there he was. His face was real and no longer a vision. He whimpered aloud. She wondered and wept. Something in his shirt pocket fought for her attention. She stared, disbelieving, at the contents he withdrew. The check was there. Jonah had brought it to her. She knew not why and cared not that he could not explain it. She shared with him a laugh which told the world a whole new story. Although the course of their lives could not be charted on a map, something bigger had drawn them back together again. She took him to her house and before a little window he sat at a table. He sat during the day next to an empty chair, which sat next to his, and together he and the chair looked out the window. The town lay before them and he and the table and the chair were hesitant to speak out about the view. The landscape appeared as if designed by the mind of a clay-molder gone mad. Under the pressure of an invisible hand, the town was crumbling. Much of it was in ruin, like a saucer cracked and discarded. In desperate need for a miracle, Sarah had spent years wondering when her tribulations would end. It was Jonah who had found the horse. She read of it in the newspaper. They’d said he’d been given a substantial reward. She would now return to the bank those missing payments. They’d harassed her about the house as if it was destined to be discarded like a pack of napkins ruffled and matted at the last meal of the dying. As if stuffed in the seats of an old sedan, ditched on the downhill side of a mountain, the money she needed had taken the long road home. But it had arrived! Jonah sat at the table in the stillness of his companions. Like a war he was tugged back and forth, to live with the people of everyday life, or to watch them from afar. One day it started to rain. He looked up at the sky and knew was time to return to the clouds. IX Jonah left the town on foot. Alone again, he tended to his thoughts, whichever way he wandered. He traveled along the mountain trail and found many things to ponder, ideas he’d left out to grow along the land. He saw the way the river falls. Although a waterfall drops from high above and hits the earth, the water becomes a river again. He thought to return to the earth after a falling away. He came at last to his cabin in the mountains. The grass here had faded, turned pale-brown. The leaves on trees were gone and the air dry. Up above, not a cloud waited in the sky. It hadn’t rained in many days and would not rain for many more, he realized. The Cloudbuyers were nowhere to be seen. In his cabin he laid himself down to dream. He had a simple vision in the night. He saw the leaves of a withered tree blown gently into the river by the wind. Next, caught up by the current, the leaves roved hither and thither on top the waves in the water. Then, one leaf was trapped on the edge of a jagged stone. He felt its heart stretch as it struggled there. The river rushed back and forth and tried to lift it up and let the leaf go free. Once torn apart, the leaf sank in the water and his vision drifted away. Each day he awoke and rose when he wanted. Jonah set his pace by his own time and not the timepiece of some other. He wandered around the mountain to gather more nuts growing in a grove where a fresh spring watered them. Near the spring was a cave and when he walked past the opening he saw someone hiding inside. After entering the cave, he was confounded by a pair of young Cloudbuyers. There was Little Mark, and Elysee, hiding in the shadows with fear on their faces. They’d been trapped on the mountainside when the clouds had disappeared. They hesitated to go outside the cave, knowing even a single drop of rain could destroy them. They had grown thinner and paler than any Cloudbuyer Jonah had ever seen before. Their bodies had withered and they’d nearly sunk to the floor. Like a wisp of cloud in the sky, they might vanish before his eyes. They were so light he could pick them up and carry them. He took them back to his cabin and tended to them as if they were his own children. The rain did not return for many years. Something had gone wrong with the world. The clouds remained vacant from the skies. The land was dry and the crops died and the people in the town had little water to sustain them. The children in the cabin continued to evaporate, day after day, their eyes withdrawn inside their heads, their bodies thin to the bone. It seemed like the world would never recover. In late August one year, Jonah started to dance. The steps he made were complicated. He moved from side to side and kept in time and chanted aloud an invitation to the heavens. He danced every morning, hoping the rain would fall and the Cloudbuyers would return. One day Jonah felt a drop of rain on his shoulder. Up above, new clouds were forming and the sky was growing white with their returning. He continued to dance and chant as the rain came down in torrents. He laughed at the world and jumped from puddle to puddle and waved at the sky. The children held each other close inside the cabin, looking out the window, waiting for the rain to end. As the clouds collided and splashed, the young Cloudbuyers grew stronger. They were eager to return to their families and friends. When the rain stopped altogether they climbed the mountain and jumped onto the clouds. Jonah followed them and told everyone where he’d been. He talked about the city and how it confused him. He apologized for not bringing any books, because they were too heavy to carry. X Every day the Cloudbuyers watch people on the earth down below and wonder at the skyscrapers we are building. We call these tall buildings progress, but the Cloudbuyers know we are really building them to visit their world up in the sky. They have asked Jonah to tell the story of the Cloudbuyers to the people when we arrive. The history of the Cloudbuyers is in a language Jonah doesn’t understand; even so, he knows the story well. He chants and dances, moving forward one cloud at a time. He is the Rainmaker, the guardian of the Cloudbuyers. Brittany Henry is a natural born storyteller. She realized she had a penchant for spinning tales during her adolescent years, using storytelling to entertain friends and loved ones. As an individual fascinated with society and the human condition, she uses writing to gain an understanding of the world around her through thematic exploration. Being an US Navy veteran, Brittany often explores themes such as honor, courage, and duty. Science-fiction, fantasy, and paranormal are the genres she loves writing most. To get in contact with Brittany, message her at her email bjhenry1@fullsail.edu. Absent Art Sarah swatted a closed pamphlet against her hand. Murmurs from fellow patrons accompanied the sound of paper meeting flesh. Most visitors positioned themselves in front of various works. Sarah, however, stood in front of a empty golden frame. The gold glistened from the sunlight provided by the picture windows to the right of her. She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. Amidst rhythmic swats and murmurs was the loud fumbling of a museum pamphlet expanding. “Eh, uh, yeah, like I said, Barb, this is where the Sea of Galilee used to hang,” said Ted, reading the pamphlet and motioning for his wife to join him. Barbara maneuvered over to the empty frame. Sarah turned the corners of her mouth upwards and offered the couple a gracious nod. “Hey, howsit goin’, kid,” asked Ted. “It’s going well,” said Sarah. “Thanks for asking.” “Man, Barb, I sure wish I could have seen that paintin’ up close,” he said. “It was supposed ta depiciate, uh, Jesus with his pals there, during the storm. You know, da one from uh…Leviticus 9 and…?” Ted snapped his fingers repeatedly. “Mark 4 and 37, Ted,” said Barbara, picking the dirt beneath her nails. “Yeah, like I said, Mark 4:37. What did Jesus say to stop the storm? ‘Peace be unto you’ or something like that?” “Peace, be still,” Sarah said, placing her arms behind her back. Her pamphlet swatted the back of her thigh. “Yeah, that’s the ticket,” said Ted, patting on Sarah’s back, causing her to cough. “I didn’t take you for the, uh, religious type. What with the funny colored hair, dark clothing and—“ Barbara elbowed Ted in his side. “You have to forgive my husband, honey. He has a remarkable talent for putting his entire foot in his mouth,” said Barbara, plastering a smile across her plump face. “We’re the Wakowskis by the way. Ted and Barbara Wakowski.” “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Sarah Gordon,” she said. “And it’s quite alright, I didn’t take offense.” The Wakowskis moved away from the empty frame. Three sherbet orange chairs sat beneath the blank frame. Reserved spot for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, perhaps. The orange went well with the seafoam green walls with golden etchings. Sarah remained rooted in front of the frame long enough for the Wakowskis to return. “Eh, you still here, kid? It’s a cryin’ shame they took dat paintin’, but there’s no need to let it ruin ya visit,” said Ted, scratching his cul-de-sac of brown hair. “My visit is far from ruined, Mr. Wakowski,” said Sarah, through a smile. “Although it is regrettable that the piece was stolen, I’m enjoying the absence of the work.” “Absence of work?” Ted’s face puckered, causing his mustache to sit crooked. He shook his head. “I’m not followin’ you, kid. That doesn’t make no sense.” “Ted, shush,” said Barbara tapping her husband’s shoulder. “Don’t shush me, Barbara! I’m just speakin’ the truth. How can you appreciate something dat ain’t there? You tell me dat, kid,” said Ted casting his nose upwards, puffing his chest out and placing his hands on his hips. Although his most pronounced feature was his gut. “Well, that’s one way to look at it, Mr. Wakowski. But if Rembrandt’s work hung here, in all of its brilliance, it would simply be that, a painting by Rembrandt. Very finite in nature. Its absence opens up infinite possibility. Some may see nothing and become despondent. Others, sheer potentiality and become inspired,” Sarah said shrugging. Ted grunted. “I betcha one of those types that love that modern evan-guard crap, aren’t ya?” “Oh, heaven’s no!” Sarah said placing her hand on her chest. “That stuff is god awful.” The trio chuckled. “Well, again, it’s been a pleasure meeting you two today,” Sarah said, folding her pamphlet in half and placing it in her back pocket. “I think I’ll be on my way.” “Uh huh, likewise, kid.” Ted buried his nose in his brochure. His wife waved goodbye. Sarah returned her gesture. Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs McGillicuddy's Wake Two new crutches and two double shots of Bushmills Irish Whiskey enabled Joe Faherty to move from the back seat of Moira Murphy's 1976 Buick into Eagan's Funeral Home for Tim McGillicuddy's wake. At 87, Joe was in bad shape, only a tad better than McGillicuddy who looked splendid in a rococo casket. The way the funeral home had painted McGillicuddy's face, he looked better than most of the folks who had come to say good-bye. Many of them were in their eighties. Even Moira, who still had her driver's license, was creaky at 75. McGillicuddy was 90 when he fell off his horse out in the country. Until that moment he hadn't been sick a day in his life. Never drank and never smoked. Women were his passion. He was calling on a couple until the day he died. Few folks knew that McGillicuddy had been expelled from Ireland by the British in 1920. He was 18. He had been captured at 16 bringing guns to older IRA rebels who were fighting the British. A few rebels with rifles caused the British occupiers a lot of problems. For two years they kept McGillicudy in prison. They finally agreed to let him go to America. Why not, McGillicuddy thought. Life in America had to be better than prison. In the funeral home, however, much to the disgust of Joe Faherty, the priest had come to the wake early. This meant Joe didn't have time to grab his crutches and get to the bar next door before the priest started the rosary. The custom at Irish wakes was that the priest would arrive at 6:30 p.m. and all the men would have made it to the bar by then. The women would say the rosary with the priest. But this was a new priest and there he was in front of the casket saying 15 decades of the rosary. Not the traditional five, as was the case at Polish wakes. Joe figured it would take the priest an hour to finish. Then he'd ask Moira to take him home. He was too tired to go to the bar. Besides, he had had more than the two double shots of Bushmills he had mentioned to Moira. Moira drove Joe home. She waited until he was inside the house. She wanted to make certain his new crutches wouldn't result in a fall. Joe waved good-bye to Moira and shut the door but didn't lock it. He had to let the dog out. Although he hated to turn on a light--he lived on Social Security--he turned on just one because it was as dark inside as it was outside. He planned to buy some candles. As soon as Joe turned on the light, he saw McGillicuddy in his favorite recliner wearing the same fancy suit he had on in the casket. "What the hell are you doing here," Faherty asked. "Why didn't you stay where you were. We got through the rosary so why do this. They'll come here first, considering all the years we've been friends." McGillicuddy didn't say a word. "Well," said Faherty, "if you aren't in the mood to talk, I'll have another Bushmills till you decide to say something. You don't look dead. In fact, you never looked better." McGillicuddy maintained his silence. "It's too bad you don't drink. You could join me in some Bushmills. It's as good today as it was back in Ireland." Down deep Faherty didn't know what to do with dead McGillicuddy in his favorite recliner. How long, he wondered, would McGillicuddy stay. He wanted to be friendly but there was a limit to his hospitality. "Let's watch the news on television," Faherty said, turning on the set. "Maybe they'll explain how I've come to enjoy your company. "You didn't drive, did you? If you need a lift I'm sure Moira will come pick you up. After all, you two almost got married. I think she's still fond of you. Still, not a word out of McGillicuddy. "I'm going in the kitchen and call Moira," Joe said. "I'll be right back. We can talk about which way you're going, up or down, if you know what I mean. "The bets were about even on you. I told everyone you'd be in heaven before they embalmed you. Except for the women, you probably didn't commit another mortal sin in your life. Of course, you were dead when the priest gave you the Last Rites. Don't know if they work on a dead person. Let's hope they do." Faherty hoisted himself out of the guest chair, got on his crutches and headed for the kitchen to call Moira. He stumbled a bit on the rug because he wasn't used to the crutches or all that Bushmills. "Hello, Moira," Faherty said when she answered the phone. "Could you drop back here for a minute. I've got an unexpected guest who needs a lift. I think you'll be happy to see him. I have to go to bed. We've got McGillicuddy's funeral Mass tomorrow. Wouldn't want to miss that." Moira said she'd be right over. Faherty, heading back to the parlor, tripped over his dachshund. The dog had slept through all the commotion with McGillicuddy. Joe landed with a thud on his forehead. He never moved. The next day Moira blamed Joe's death on his crutches and indeed that was part of the problem. No mention was made of the Bushmills, however. Moira, who had found the body, found the half empty bottle and took it home. As Joe's driver for three years Moira thought she deserved the liquor. But she wondered who the guest was that Joe had called about. When she got to his house, there was only the dachshund snoring next to the body. Lola enjoys writing about things close to her heart. She loves to reads especially crime and psychological thrillers. Lola also loves to garden and the sound of rain on the rooftops. She enjoys spending time with her fiance and going on long walks in the woods. First Glance She glanced over at him as he sat at a table in the coffee shop. Their eyes met and at that moment they both knew. She placed her order and waited. He came up and ordered a muffin. He turned to her and said “May I be so bold, would you like to join me?” She smiled at this invitation and accepted not wanting to look to eager. They got their order and made their way to the table. There was a fire in both their eyes and as they talked it felt like they had known each other forever. It was fate, a random meeting that only a few people get. They talked for hours and then he walked her home. They made plans to meet the next day. They both knew that they were instantly right for each other. Just from that first glance in a busy coffee shop. She knew that he was the one all the way to her soul. As he walked home, he was thinking she’s the one I’ve been looking for. One glance said it all in a busy coffee shop. Terrified
She walked fast looking over her shoulder. She knew he was behind her. She couldn’t see but everything in her said he was back there. She sped up through the crowd, pushing her way through. She stopped at the corner trying to decide where to run to. He could be anywhere. This had been going on for years. The notes, the gifts, the flowers. Never wanted by her Her heart was pounding as she ran to the all night diner. Oh please OH please don’t let him be here she prayed. She threw open the door and ran for the corner both. She could see the whole place. There were very few customers. Aman caught her eye, hiding behind a newspaper, slowly he lowered it when he felt her eyes on him. It was the face of her predator. She felt nauseous and dizzy. There seemed to be no way out. Panic rose in her as she looked for a way out. She was shaking and her heart was pounding in here throat. She would try very hard to camly get up and leave. She raced out of the dinner and jumped in front of a cab, desperate to get away. Frenzied and shaken she made it to her apartment. He had ran out and was screaming at her a the diner. Tears rolled down her face. She would never be and had to find a way to escape. William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle). Picture Wikipedia: Bedroom https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bedroom
The One-Night Stand Ann sat bolt upright. She grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it back, exposing the other side of the bed. It was empty. She reached out and ran her hand over the wrinkled sheet. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either. “Tony?” She listened carefully. “Tony?” Hopping out of bed she threw on her robe. Ann tied the sash around her waist, sliding her feet into fluffy slippers. Still, the apartment was silent. She headed down the hall toward the bathroom. Glancing about she pulled the shower curtain back. Nothing. Ann walked back down the hall and stopped in the living room. It too was empty. Turning around she stepped into the kitchen, hopeful, but nobody was there. Heart dropping she went to the apartment door and glanced at the floor mat: there was only one pair of shoes. Shuffling slowly back to the kitchen Ann sat down and stared off into space, her hands resting limply in her lap. Little by little her eyes welled until spilling over, leaving a wet trail down one cheek. She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. Her cellphone vibrated from the counter. Ann didn’t move. The phone vibrated again, and she turned toward the noise as a third vibration sounded. Picking it up, she glanced at the screen. Opening her messages she looked at the list of names. Helen’s was at the top. Ann hesitated before reading the expanded message: So? Is he still there? Is he as hot in bed as he is in person? She wiped at her eyes with her free hand, sniffing. Using two thumbs she texted back: I just got up. He’s disappeared. Ann lowered the phone to her lap and exhaled slowly. Her shoulders slumped. The phone rang. Almost without thinking she pressed the answer button and held the device to her ear. “What do you mean he’s gone?” came Helen’s voice, sounding exasperated. “Did he leave a note?” “I didn’t see anything. Then again, it’s not like I leave notepaper lying around.” “Did you check your desk?” “No,” she said, hopes rising. “Let me go look.” Ann got up and walked again to the living room, examining the computer table in one corner. “Nope. I don’t see anything.” “Nothing on the side table by the bed? Nothing in the kitchen?” “Nada.” Ann sat down heavily on the couch. “Why’d he run off? Did you scare him?” “Helen, he was fabulous. It was the best sex I’ve had in a long time. Last night, I was so into him I thought I was going to scream. God, when he went down on me—” “Jesus, Ann.” “Helen, he was hot. He was really hot. I thought he was into it; I thought he was into me. At the bar last night, and in bed, he seemed to like me. No … he seemed to more than like me, he seemed to be into me as much as I was into him. I thought we clicked. It was lust at first sight.” “So, what happened?” “I don’t know. It was late, and we were both pretty exhausted after our hot and heavy marathon. We didn’t talk much afterward, but fell asleep in each other’s arms. I was vaguely aware of him getting up in the middle of the night to go to the can, but I was so deliciously unwound I slept like a log. I didn’t wake up till now. That’s when I discovered he had gone. At first I thought he might have got up to go to the bathroom or to the kitchen to make coffee, but I checked. His shoes were by the front door, but now they’re gone. He’s left.” There was a moment of silence before Helen said, “That bastard.” “He never said anything about needing to work, but maybe he had to be someplace this morning. I don’t know.” “That bastard,” Helen repeated. Ann leaned forward, propping her head up with one hand, elbow on her knee. “I feel pretty stupid right now, Helen. This is like that Matt guy two months ago. That shithead comes over, has sex, and then disappears, never to be heard from again. What the fuck is wrong with guys?” “I’m sorry, Ann.” “I end up feeling so cheap. Shit, it’s like those horny idiots only want me for one thing.” “Well—” “When am I going to learn? I shouldn’t do this on a first date.” Ann sat back on the couch. “Unfortunately, I get horny and what? Can’t I have fun like everybody else? Can’t I have fun like a guy? What the hell is the matter with me wanting to have sex?” “Why don’t we get together for a coffee? Let’s talk this through.” Just then there was a noise in the hallway and Ann turned her head. “Sure ...,” she strained her ears. “I guess ...” Somebody was definitely trying the lock. “Just a sec. I think somebody’s at the door.” She gripped the phone by her side as she walked to the door. The sound of jingling keys came from the hall. Unlocking the door she pulled it open. Tony stood in the middle of the hall, fiddling with a ring of keys. “What do you want?” She looked at him coldly. Startled, he dropped the keys. “Oh. Darn. You’re awake,” he mumbled as he bent to retrieve them. “Yes, I’m awake. And you left.” Tony smiled. “I wanted to surprise you.” “You did surprise me. You left.” “May I come in?” “Those are my keys,” Ann said, still seething. “Why don’t you hand them back and we can call it even?” “You’re angry.” “Yes.” She fixed him with her coldest stare. “Oh, I get it. You think I’d left for good.” “You had left.” Tony stepped forward, leaning in to kiss her. Ann turned her head. He paused before kissing her cheek instead. “I can’t leave yet. I haven’t had my quota of cuddling.” “What?” She gave him a sidelong glance, suspicious. Reaching down for something out of view, Tony revealed a tray. “I got us coffee. I still have to find out how you take it, so I came prepared for any combination: milk, cream and half-and-half, along with regular sugar, brown sugar, and sweetener. Plus, I have two bagels: one sesame- and one poppy-seed. You pick first, and I’ll take whatever is left. Also, I brought both butter and cream cheese so you can have either. Or both, if you want.” Tony raised the tray and grinned. “Have I made you an offer you can’t refuse?” Ann looked between him and the tray. “Well ...” He slid one arm around her waist. “I thought last night was pretty special. I think we clicked and I want to know more about you. So, how about inviting me back to bed, sharing the goodies I bought, and cuddling? Why don’t you tell me all about Ann, and I can tell you something about Tony?” When she didn’t respond he brushed his lips across her cheek. “Well?” Bending down he whispered in her ear. “I’m not the type of guy to run off. I want more. I want it all.” A tiny voice sounded from below. “Ann? Ann! What’s happening?” Startled, Ann brought the phone up to her ear. “Got to go. Call you later.” She ended the call with her thumb. “Come in,” she said, stepping back. Tony moved into the apartment as Ann closed the door behind him and locked it. “It was my plan to sneak back in, take the top off one of the cups, and gently blow the smell of fresh, steaming coffee at you. I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Oh well, there’s one lost surprise.” “Oh, I’m surprised,” she called over her shoulder as she walked toward the bedroom. “You’re redeeming yourself.” Ann kicked off her slippers, propped her pillow against the headboard, and climbed back into bed. As he unbuttoned his shirt, she watched Tony closely. He noticed and smiled slyly, seductively pulling part of his shirt off one shoulder. He paused before letting it fall to the floor. She looked him up and down. Jesus. Tony undid his belt and slowly pulled down his zipper, puckering his lips. Ann smirked. “My coffee’s getting cold.” “Right,” he grinned. Hurriedly he stepped out of his pants before pulling off his socks and underwear. Climbed into bed he placed the tray between the two of them. “Now, tell me how you take your coffee.” “Two milk, no sugar.” He removed the lid from one of the cups and prepared the beverage, holding it up when done. But as Ann reached for it he pulled it away. “I want a kiss.” “Oh?” She stared at him suspiciously. “I have to pay for my coffee?” “Yes.” She took a breath. “Okay.” “I enjoyed last night,” he said, leaning over. “I enjoyed you.” Ann stared into Tony’s eyes. God, he is gorgeous. “I enjoyed you, too.” Tony kissed her deeply, sensually. He held the kiss for what seemed like an eternity before breaking away and sitting back up. He handed her the coffee. “Thanks.” As he took the other cup from the tray, Tony playfully bumped his shoulder against hers. He held his coffee up, and the two of them toasted with their paper cups. He smiled. “Let’s see where this leads the two of us.” END |
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