Contributor: Krystina Balogh

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The old Victorian house loomed ahead, its windows a dark reflection of the pending autumn storm. Sasha pulled her thin jacket closed and quickened her pace. She didn’t like the house. It was eerie with its unkempt garden and peeling trim.

“Can you help me, please? Excuse me? Can you help me?”

Surprised, Sasha looked around and saw the little girl standing on the porch steps, her dress straight out of the 19th century.

That’s odd, she thought. I didn’t think anyone lived here. I guess someone finally bought the old place.

“Excuse me,” the little girl said once more, coming down the steps towards Sasha. “Please, I need help.”

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Sasha asked, rubbing her hands together to keep warm in the chill air. She should have worn her heavier jacket.

“It’s my father,” the little girl said. “He’s fallen and I can’t wake him up. Please, help him.” The little girl turned and moved quickly up the porch steps.
Sasha started to follow and then remembered her cell phone in her pocket.

“Did you call 911?” she asked as she pulled it out. “You should call 911 before you do anything when someone is hurt, you know.”

The little girl stopped near the top of the steps and replied, “The telephone isn’t connected yet.”

“That’s ok, I’ve got my cell. I’ll call 911…” Sasha said as she started to dial. Before she was able to finish dialing, the little girl bolted down the stairs, grabbed her free hand, and tugged her up the stairs. The force of the tug sent the cell phone flying out of her hand and onto the sidewalk. Sasha tried to retrieve it but the little girl wouldn’t let go.

“Please, there is no time,” the little girl pleaded. “He’s badly hurt. You must help him!”

Sasha saw how frantic she was and heard the panic in the little girl’s voice. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to check on her father first and then come back for the cell phone. No one would bother it and she was the only help in sight; the neighborhood was practically abandoned.

Sasha let the little girl pull her up the porch steps and into the foyer. It was dark inside. There were heavy velvet curtains covering the windows and no lights were on. She noticed a switch on the wall near the front door and pushed it. Nothing happened. “No electricity?” she asked the little girl.

“Yes, but the fuse blew. Father was going down to replace it when he fell,” she replied. The little girl picked up a candle stub from the foyer table, lit it, and motioned for Sasha to follow. They moved quickly through the gloom, the candle providing the only light.

The little girl stopped at a nondescript door just outside the kitchen. “Father is down there, at the bottom of the cellar stairs,” she explained as she pulled a key from her pocket. The lock softly clicked in the quiet hallway.

Suddenly, Sasha did not want to open the door. She did not want to see what was on the other side. Stop being silly, she told herself. There’s nothing on the other side except some stairs, the cellar, and an injured man. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and reached for the doorknob. She slowly opened the door. She let loose a nervous giggle when nothing gruesome jumped out.

Sasha moved to the top of the stairs and peered into the darkness below.

She couldn’t see anything, not even the little girl’s father. “Do you have a flashlight I could use?” she asked.

“Father had the only flashlight. It’s down there, now,” the little girl replied as she pointed down the cellar stairs.

“A candle?”

“This is the only one I have and I don’t want to be left in the dark.”

A soft scratching noise rose from the cellar. Sasha looked down the stairs, willing herself to see through the darkness with no luck.

“What exactly happened to your father?” she asked. “You never said.”

The little girl looked anxious. “We were in the kitchen when the fuse blew. Father was in a hurry and didn’t watch where he was going. He missed a step and fell down the stairs. I tried to help him but I couldn’t get him to wake up.”

“You saw the flashlight next to him?” Sasha was hesitant. She really did not want to go down the stairs into that thick, impenetrable darkness. Something wasn’t right.

“Yes, it was on the floor next to him. Please, go down and make sure he’s ok. I couldn’t get him to wake up,” the little girl sobbed. “Please!”

Sasha sighed and turned towards the stairs. As she picked up her foot to navigate the first step she felt a hard shove from behind and lost her footing. She tumbled head over heels down the stairs to the floor below, hitting her head hard. The last thing she heard before she lost consciousness was the door closing and the key turning in the lock. The last thing she saw was that she was alone at the bottom of the stairs.

In the hallway the little girl removed the key from the lock and put it back in her pocket. A small, wicked smile played across her lips. That should keep them occupied and well-fed for a while, she thought.


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Krystina Balogh is a freelance writer that haunts the mid-Atlantic region of the USA. She dabbles in the horror, science fiction, and fantasy genres and is the author of numerous short stories. When she is not busy writing, she indulges her love for the supernatural and video games.

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Author: Krystina Balogh

Contributor: Karen Lindsey

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Sheila had no particular fondness for statues, holy pictures, or other renditions of Jesus. Baby Jesus always looked so snarkily cute she found him wholly without charm. The handsome young white hippy looked smug, even when he was interacting with children: she had a sneaky feeling he was giving them bars of healthy snacks. Worst was the morbid near-corpse nailed to the cross, its sparse right ribs bleeding heavily.

Raised by vaguely Christian parents, she had a slight belief in God and the afterlife. When her kids were young she had a Christmas tree and an Easter egg hunt. When they grew up and left home, she abandoned the practices comfortably. Nor did she ever go to church, unless weddings or funerals required it. On the whole, she preferred the funerals: they were less noisy and the food was less ostentatious.

But the year her husband left her for a younger woman, her friends decided to make her holidays bright, whether she wanted them to be or not. “Sheila,” they’d say warmly, “holidays are always rough the first year.” In fact, they weren’t especially rough for her; neither she nor Ralph had cared much about them. She enjoyed them as days off work, allowing her to sit and read or watch old films on television. She was not even that devastated by the end of a marriage that had long since gone sour. But her friends meant well, so she tagged along with several of them to midnight mass at a small Catholic church nearby. At least the music would be good, she told herself.

The music was indeed good, played by a small but highly competent orchestra and a well-trained soprano and tenor. Jesus, of course, was inescapable, in all his baby-through-crucifix manifestations, but she was prepared to ignore them.

Looking around the church she noticed one quiet, unpeopled corner that harbored a large box of toys—evidently some day-care center worked here during the week. There were dolls and plush toys, some small dinosaurs and a few of the less violent action figures. (It amused her to see Jane Austin among them.) Inevitably there was the little kiddy crèche, with its sadly smiling velcro-ed Virgin and its rather grim Joseph, plus assorted angels, shepherds, and barnyard animals. But it was the toy on the shelf above the crèche that grabbed her attention. This was the oddest Jesus figure she’d ever seen—a ragdoll that, dressed and coiffed differently, could easily be a Raggedy Andy, like the one she’d had as a kid. But this fellow had brown, shoulder length hair and a beard; he wore sandals and an Arab-y sort of robe, and his painted eyes had the saddest expression she’d ever seen.

He was totally incongruous. The size of a living baby, he would have looked perfect in the church’s crèche, except that he was clearly no infant. Yet there was nothing of pedant or martyr about him. It seemed that the cloth artist had captured the various images of Jesus in one piece; this God was his own trinity, at one with all human pain, from the cry of the soggy-diapered baby to the abandonment of a lover and on through the ultimate agony of death. The eyes could weep in a crib or in Gethsemane; yet the mouth, covered by its mustache, was nearly smiling. She could not look away from the creature.

As the mass ended, and people walked out of various aisles to speak with the priest or collect their altar boys or gather chatting in little groups, Sheila slipped away from her friends toward the dark corner of the play area. With her arm beneath its neck, she lifted the ragdoll as tenderly as if it were a newborn infant, and cradled it in her arms for a few minutes. Around her, some children were singing an old hymn, whose lyrics she ignored but whose soft sound she picked up—-“Holy God We Praise Thy Name,” she thought it was called. The music combined lullaby and dirge with a small touch of solemn pleasure, and she hummed it to the ragdoll in her arms. Quietly then she put him down and rejoined her friends. She would come back here: perhaps at Easter, perhaps not until next Christmas. She knew the Jesus doll would be waiting for her. As she left the church, she wondered if there would be any places selling Christmas trees open.


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Old writer trying genres new to me

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Author: Karen Lindsey

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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It's Christmas Eve and Paddy Kelly is on his way home from work at the Post Office. He stops at Rosen's Deli and orders a brisket of beef sandwich on pumpernickel rye with a smear of horseradish and a "new" kosher pickle on the side.

Ever since he came from Ireland to Chicago years ago, Paddy has preferred the "new" kosher pickle to the standard kosher pickle because it's crunchier, he says. It's more like a cucumber, he told his wife, because it isn't cured as long as the standard kosher pickle. He loves the sound as he bites into one, a sound he magnifies whenever he brings his wife to Rosen's. Maggie Kelly likes the new pickle but doesn't like the sound of Paddy chomping on it in public.

"I'll take a potato latke, too, Sol," Paddy says to Mr. Rosen, the proprietor of the deli and eldest son of a rabbi killed at the Treblinka Concentration Camp by the Nazis during World War II. Sol was the only survivor in his family. His parents and four siblings were gassed at Treblinka. At 76 Sol has now almost come to grips with the murders except on Jewish holidays when everything about the Treblinka camp dashes back into his mind. If it weren't for the American soldiers getting there on time, he would have gone to the gas chamber as well.

"You want coffee now Paddy?" Sol says, stationed in his white apron at the big silver urn, cup in hand. The apron is a patchwork of all the condiments Sol has dispensed during his long day. Mustard stains are particularly hard to get out, according to Mrs. Rosen, a tiny woman, who reminds Sol of that whenever she's behind the counter helping out.

"Coffee later, Sol, with a piece of cheesecake. No dinner tonight. Maggie's not feeling well. I'll eat here and take noodle soup to go. I hope she'll feel better in the morning. She'd never forgive herself if she's too sick to go to Mass on Christmas Day."

It's always quiet on Christmas Eve at Rosen's Deli but this time it's quieter than usual. Two regulars, Ruben Cohen and Ruben Goldberg, are the only other customers They are sitting on their usual thrones at the counter, with an empty throne between them, facing each other in almost matching fedoras and arguing as always about the definition of certain Yiddish words.

Cohen and Goldberg have been arguing about the fine points--and not so fine points--of the Yiddish language for years with no sign of detente. Right now, the argument is over whether "kunilemel" and "shmendreck" are Yiddish synonyms--or not. Ruben Cohen says it's worse to be called a shmendreck than a kunilemel and Ruben Goldberg maintains that is not accurate.

"They're both the same, Cohen!" Goldberg proclaims, prior to a slurp of coffee.

"Are you telling me you'd just as soon be called a shmendreck as a kunilemel," Cohen yells at Goldberg.

If a selection had to be made, Goldberg would probably be judged the scholar of the two in that he usually completes the crossword puzzle in the Chicago Sun-Times in half an hour. Cohen, on the other hand, is currently a cab driver with a degree in accounting. He's between jobs, which is usually the case for Ruben Cohen, and he hasn't got time for crossword puzzles. But he'll do your taxes accurately for a lot less than H&R Block.

"Time is money," Cohen says to Goldberg as he heads for the door. "I got no time for crossword puzzles on Christmas Eve. I'll be getting quite a few fares for Midnight Mass. It's tough for the old-timers to walk a few blocks. Ask Kelly over there. He'll tell you that's the truth.

Paddy Kelly, in the meantime, is lost in thought as he finishes his cheesecake and coffee and walks up to pay his tab at the front of the store. Once again Sol is there wrestling with his ancient register. Some days it works and some days it doesn't. Sol shakes it at least three times before putting in a call to the repairman. On Christmas Eve, the charge would be higher and it's high enough, Sol says, on regular days.

"How's Mrs. Rosen, Sol?," Paddy asks. "Haven't seen her in weeks."

"Cancer, Paddy," Sol says. "They operate next week. Things don't look good. The docs say everything depends on what they find. Up until now she's had good health for a woman her age."

Paddy has no idea what to say. He knows Minerva Rosen better than Sol. Years ago it was Minerva Rosen who handed him his first new pickle. And then she gave him his first knish. Two days after that, she brought over his first steaming bowl of sweet and sour cabbage soup.

Paddy had eaten a lot of cabbage in Ireland but nothing as delicious as Mrs. Rosen's sweet and sour cabbage soup. He always comes in for a bowl on St. Patrick's Day before heading to the party at the Knights of Columbus Hall.

The Rosens cater that event every year. For weeks afterward arguments continue among the guests, most of them immigrants from Ireland, as to which corned beef is better--Rosen's kosher corned beef or the version they ate on holidays back in Ireland, provided their families could afford it. Otherwise they ate boiled cabbage and potatoes with a piece of pork tossed in for flavoring.

Paddy has always preferred Rosen's corned beef but he would never risk his life by saying so in front of the other Knights.

"Sol, at church tomorrow, Maggie and I will pray hard for Mrs. Rosen. I hope to God the surgery works. Sometimes praying is all that anyone can do."

"I know," Sol says as the register finally springs open. "You have a good Christmas, Paddy, and we'll see what the doctors say next week. The best to you and Maggie."


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Alexander Ziperovich

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I went out for a smoke and there was a long, used syringe standing upright in the gravel inside the crowded dog park in front of my building. I went up to the gate and started yelling but the hundred barking dogs drowned me out. As I stood there shouting I watched a Doberman whose curiosity had been piqued by the shiny object walk up. The big dog stooped and sniffed around, tilting its head to the side in a final consideration before wandering off. Then a young, ebullient poodle came bounding up and greedily fastened its jaws down on the needle. The stunned dog stopped moving for a moment, its tail limp, before letting out a high-pitched scream. It staggered around wildly, blood pouring from its snout as the needle dangled from the roof of its gaping mouth before falling back down to the gravel.

That was the morning that preceded the night that I met Annie. I found this girl with blood-red hair at a bar in Capitol Hill and we ended up at this beautiful condo her parents had bought her up the block. We fucked everywhere, except on the little Juliet balcony; it was too small for two people. After we finished having sex she started with the Shakespeare shit.

“Michael, you’ve read Romeo and Juliet, right?” She was standing above me in this tiny silk negligée watching me pour scotch into a cut-glass tumbler from a crystal decanter. We had just finished fucking for the third time and little beads of sweat were drying on my naked body as I sat there at this beautifully polished mahogany table, my bare ass in her expensive leather chair and the glass of scotch in my hand.

“I hate Shakespeare.” I got into telling her how he wasn’t even real, how Shakespeare was just an amalgamation of peasant ghost writers who got fucked out of there writing bylines by a couple of greedy assholes from the nobility because they had this idea that you had to have blue blood to write in those days.

“But haven’t you read Romeo and Juliet? Don’t you think it would be divine to fall so madly in love that you would rather die than be without your lover?” This strange, yearning came through her voice. “No,” I carefully said, “I think it’s melodramatic bullshit.”

“I think it’s the most pure expression of love in the world.” She gazed out her fifth story window at the lights of the city below. I shuddered, thinking, “Death is the most beautiful expression of love?” I had another drink and left.

I saw Annie from time to time around town and we even fucked again, at my place. The same thing happened, too. We were in my bed sharing a cigarette after some particularly loveless sex. “God,” She started, “Romeo and Juliet really are the epitome of love,” She stared up dreamily watching the tendrils of smoke curl up into the ceiling. “They are love.” She said it breathlessly, the corners of her mouth tipped up like little hooks as she sat there with her eyes closed, opiated with the idea. I just sat there saying nothing.

Some months went by and I started seeing her with this guy I knew, Ryan, this depressed artist kid with perpetual circles under his eyes. He walked around with her with those big black circles under his eyes looking vacant all the time and every time I saw them they were together and it was like she was hard at work casting a spell on him. She’d be talking up at him as he sort of stood there swaying, just taking it all in looking hypnotized. She was clearly moving something around inside of him.

I was walking down the street where she lived one night and it was a scene, ambulances and cop cars, even a fire truck. There were paramedics and firefighters and cops everywhere, standing around a large mass under a sheet. I said to myself, “Fuck, she did it. They killed themselves. They jumped.”

That’s when I saw her sitting on a curb across the street with one of those white blankets you see medics give people after they’re rescued from fires or car accidents draped over her shoulders. She sat there alone on the curb silently staring up into space. I asked her what happened and she slowly shook her head at me as if awakening from some private reverie and looked at me and said, “Love. Love happened.” Then she yawned.


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Alexander Ziperovich is a writer living in Seattle with his girlfriend Soph. He paints for fun and even sells art once in awhile, but his first love is the written word. Find more of him at www.everythingsings.org.

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Author: Alexander Ziperovich

Contributor: Sean Crose

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By December's end, it was all over. After drinking your way through New Year's weekend up in Boston, you awoke to the dullness of a wintry wasteland and a complete, total, lack of direction.
“Where to from here?” was the question much on your mind that January.
Unfortunately, you couldn't find an answer. Not in the ten songs you and the guys had recorded. Not in your mother's nagging. Not in your new job at the bakery. Nowhere.
“I'm at a crossroads,” you had uttered to Mom one day during one of your unending stream of arguments.
“You're always at a crossroads,” she replied.
She was right and you knew it. Still, you were helpless to change your situation. You'd have taken the road less traveled, but that road wasn't presenting itself to you. No road was.
Fortunately you got around to finishing the book Jody had let you borrow that night just before Christmas. Remember that night? How it was snowing like hell up there in Springfield and you thought you were going to die from alcohol poisoning?
Funny how you sat there in Jody's kitchen not really caring if you lived or died. Not funny, actually. Scary. There you were, pale, on the verge of dying from drink, and not giving a damn.
That was truly your furthest point away from God.
Yet you somehow remembered to take the book with you once the snow stopped and you figured you were actually going to live to drink another day. When you got around to finishing the book a full month later, you felt like a door had finally opened.
“So this is what I'm going to do,” you said to Mom that Sunday afternoon, minutes after you had read the last sentence.
“Sounds good.”
The fact that her “sounds good” actually came across as genuine pleased you. Let's face it, those words, or , rather, the tone in which they were spoken, made you truly feel like you were on to something.
And so you began the adventure of writing your story, just as the author of your new favorite book had done. Your life was heading in an exciting new direction. The previous year's adventure was over, but so was your old life.
Or so you thought.
Amidst all the preparation and hard work that went into penning an entire book on your rather unusual experiences, a book dealing with hospitals, specialists and brain scans, you were still pretty much yourself.
Oh, you could now go on and on about how nonfiction was the new fiction. You could also walk around serenely confident that you had both the talent and the unusual back story to make yourself interesting to a publisher. Yet you were you.
All that changed, really, were your thoughts. And by thoughts I mean those drunken reveries you'd have down in the den at three in the morning, when the television was off and all was quiet. The subject of the reveries may have changed, but the cause of them remained the same.
Still, the work and new direction served as bricks that would eventually become a rather lengthy wall. For some chosen roads, be they more or less well traveled, extend farther than originally thought.


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Sean Crose is a writer and teacher. He lives in Connecticut with his wife Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: Ryan Priest

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His breath is hot against my face which is funny because his words are lighting a fire in my mind. He’s so animated and passionate that I don’t care that I don’t know what he’s talking about, don’t really know what I’m nodding along with. I’m just so happy to have his attention.
I can’t help but to hang on every word, every delicate detail of this encounter. He’s got that thing, charisma.
It’s like a magnet in his smile and you can’t help but to be drawn in. You simply like him and have a desperate need for him to like you back. You always want more of him. It’s not about sex but he is sexy. You’re not gay but you would be for him. If he asked you. You’d do anything to make him like you. This is charisma and I know this. I recognize it easily but still I am powerless against it. More power than any one man should have, yet he’s got it in spades.
He’s gone on for longer than ever before. I’ve followed him, taken his picture a thousand times, in a thousand ways. At every premiere I’ve been there. I gave him five once as he was on his way out of a club. I didn’t wash my hand for a week. And now finally here he is one on one with me talking, sharing with me as if I was a real person to him. This magnanimity humbles me even more.
I quake in his presence but I don’t want it to end. Ever. I can’t even fully enjoy this moment because I can feel its inevitable end coming quick. Another star will walk into the bar and he’ll be gone. Or his agent will call and he’ll tell me, “Sorry, got to take this,” as he casually turns his perfectly contoured back to me.
The sun will set on this short gift and then life will be all downhill from there. There’s not going to be any topping this, beers with a superstar. I could follow him for another five years and never again this close, this candid, this personal.
I can tell by the rhythm of his speech he wants to wind this down. And why shouldn’t he? He’s got glorious places to go and magnificent things to do. At this moment I’m glad I always carry a gun. I’m glad because in a sense I can make this moment last forever. That is to say at least things won’t have to get any worse. Go out on a high.
I’m smiling so hard I’m crying. Either that or I’m crying so hard it’s making me laugh. The gun’s out now wiggling at him almost out of my control. I can’t hold still but it doesn’t matter at this range. His blood tastes of syrup and iron.
In a day I’ll be famous too. Not a star but famous none the less. They’ll never be able to tell his story without mentioning my name. I’ll have my own Wikipedia page and it’ll be linked to his for as long as there’s an internet.
Even in death he looks like a god. His body fallen over in its chair like a perfect pose. Like an artist would depict a murder.
The muzzle’s a lot hotter than I figured. It burns the soft underside of my chin. Notoriety is just a different kind of fame. The click of the hammer sends a sharp vibration rattling through my jaw.
This is worth dying for. This is worth the bullet that’s about to spin its way out of the barrel and through my brain. This isn’t what I dreamed about as a child but neither is it the worst way it could have gone. Being a somebody, anybody beats being a nobody. Especially if you weren’t lucky enough to be endowed with any charisma of your own.


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Ryan Priest is a screenwriter who lives in Hollywood. His newest project "Top Flight Security" just premiered on Youtube as a web series.

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Author: Ryan Priest

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Barney, I'm pro-life so I can't kill Rosie, no matter that I caught her in bed with Wilbur. I'm a Catholic so if I were to kill her, I'd go straight to Hell if I were to die before going to confession.

And even if I go to confession, and Jesus Christ forgives my sin, imagine how long I'd be in Purgatory. It would take years to strip away the stain--not the guilt--of that sin from my soul. Christ's death on the cross took care of the guilt but I'd still have the stain.

I know you Baptists don't believe in Purgatory but I'm reserving seats for both us in advance.

You see, killing Rosie would be a little like setting my neighbor's house on fire and it burns to the ground. My neighbor might forgive me in time but I'd still have to pay for the damages. Worse, I'd spend years in jail. Sins can be forgiven but they leave a stain. And no stained soul is suitable for heaven. Purgatory purifies a stained soul. That's how us mackerel snappers see it.

Some folks think Catholics think they can commit any sin at all, go to confession, receive absolution, die and go straight to Heaven. Even the dumbest Catholics don't believe that--and let me tell you we're not all Rhodes Scholars.

You and I argue about this stuff every time I get a haircut. For 30 odd years, you've been telling me I'm one of the few Catholics you know who's saved--that I'll go straight to heaven because I accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Rumors to the contrary, Barney, every Catholic accepts Jesus as his Lord and Savior. There is no one else. We just say it in a different way.

At the same time, Catholics don't believe they're going straight to heaven simply because they believe in Jesus. They believe Jesus expects us to behave as though we believe. We're not talking about good works here. We're talking about the Ten Commandments--not the ten suggestions.

So, Barney, it boils down to this: Even if I'm saved as you maintain, I can't kill Rosie because that would make Jesus unhappy. And you and I agree, we don't want to make Jesus unhappy. Besides, He'd probably tell me to find a decent girl, marry her, settle down and raise a nice family.

What's almost as bad, Barney, is my faith says I have to forgive Rosie. That's almost as tough as not killing her since I know she'll do it again. She'll cheat on some other guy who has yet to catch on to her.

Barney, ol' buddy, take it from me. It's inconvenient at times being a pro-life Catholic, saved or otherwise.

I'll see you in three weeks when I need another haircut. And stop eating those stuffed pork chops. Too much cholesterol. Purgatory will be there soon enough when we need it.


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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    “But it’s not really my fault, then is it?”  Joseph was confessing to the psychiatrist.  “I mean, we can’t really control our thoughts, can we?

    “Is that what you believe?”

    “I’m looking for an answer.  You’re the expert.  Can anyone really control their thoughts?”

    “Joseph.  The mind is a very complex entity.  Are you looking for a medical answer or a religious one?”

    “I didn’t think there was a difference.  I want to know whether my thinking has implications for my actions.”

    “Ah.  Then that’s a medical question.  Strictly speaking, this is a question that has been going on for ages.  Will you be an astronaut or an astronomer?  Do you prefer action or observation?  People tend to lean one-way or the other.  From our discussions, I think you are more of an astronomer, someone who observes more than acts.”

    “Yes, I suppose so.  Is that wrong?”

    “Joseph.  There is no right or wrong, only choices.  Your life is guided by your choices.”

    “Yes, yes.  I know.  But how can choices be neutral?  Don’t all choices point one way or the other?”

    “One way or the other?  Your choices are based on your beliefs.  Your beliefs are based on your values.  Are we moving back to the religious implications?”

    “I guess.  So choices are neither good nor bad, just what you believe, what you value?”

    “Yes Joseph.  I think that’s a good way to look at it.  I suspect that you are worried about some choices you have made.  Is that it?”

    “Are my beliefs reliable?  Are my values in line with society?  What happens if my thoughts are not in line with my values?”

    “Then what you have is a conflict, a most common part of thinking.  Everyone has these every day.  Absolutely normal.  It seems, Joseph, that you are worried about the moral dilemma, to align your actions with your values.  I think that meeting with your pastor will help there.”

    “OK.  Are you saying I don’t need therapy?”

    “Well no.  I’m trying to tell you that religious questions should be discussed with someone else.  I can only advise you on medical questions, the examination of your life in less theological terms.  I believe people should have counsel from the right expert.  Your pastor wouldn’t give you advice on treating a medical condition; you would go to your doctor.  You see.  Coincidentally, that’s all the time we have for today.”

    “All right doctor.  I’ll see you again next week.”

***

    Joseph was still upset.  He decided to meet with his pastor, to get that religious perspective his therapist recommended.  

    “So you see pastor.  I’m conflicted.  My thoughts aren’t lining up with my beliefs, my values.”

    “Joseph, this happens to everyone.  Why are you so worried?”

    “Well, I worry that I have improper thoughts and I don’t dismiss them immediately.”

    “What kind of improper thoughts?”

    “Well, you know.  Mostly sexual.  Improper sexual thoughts.”

    “You can tell me Joseph.  Are you considering infidelity, an affair?

    “This is confidential, isn’t it?”

    “Of course.  Unless you are planning on committing a serious crime.”

    “No, nothing illegal pastor.  Just extramarital fantasies.”

    “Only fantasies?  You haven’t acted on these feelings yet?”

    “No.  Just thoughts.”

    “Are you unhappy in your marriage?”

    “That’s just it.  I’m very happy.  Linda is a wonderful wife, best friend and a great mother.”

    “And as a lover?”  This direct question startled Joseph.

    “It’s good.  I just imagine it being better.  More exciting.”

    “Are these thoughts related to lovemaking with Linda or the desire to be with another woman?”

    “Well, another woman, of course.”

    “So what you are saying is that your wife is incapable of satisfying your sexual desires?”

    “Well, I don’t know.  She hasn’t yet.”

    “You need to decide whether it is because of your sexual desires or a need for a different lover.  There’s quite a difference.  Obviously it is all right to want different sexual experiences with your wife, but quite wrong to get them outside your marriage.”

    “Yes, I can see that.  But are the fantasies, the desires morally wrong?”

    “What do you think?”

    “I don’t know.  I guess it’s wrong, but I can’t seem to help it.  Even though I enjoy the fantasies, I feel guilty immediately afterward, if you know what I mean.”

    “Well fantasies are normal.  It’s part of our sinful nature.  But acting on those fantasies is a more serious matter.”

    “So fantasies are all right?”

    “Anything that distracts us from God is sinful, so fantasies are not all right.  The trouble with fantasies is that they eventually replace your desire to seek God, to follow his path for you.  Just as the love of money is a sin, so are immoral fantasies.”

    “But why would God allow me to have these thoughts if it’s sinful?”

    “God gave us free will.  It is our responsibility to use it wisely.”

    “What if I never do anything more than fantasize, never act on my desires?”

    “It is still sin Joseph, but better than acting out.  It seems you want me to tell you that fantasizing is morally all right.  I can’t do that.  But I’m glad you haven’t acted upon those thoughts.  Have you discussed this with your wife?”

    “Heavens no!  I could never tell her that.  She would hate me.”

    “It might be a way to get over the guilt you’re feeling for having them.  She might be able to bring your focus back to her.  She may even be having similar thoughts.”

    “You think so?”

    “It’s possible.  Especially if you’re not giving her what she needs.”

    “I never thought of that.”

    “I didn’t think so.  If you want, you can both come in and talk with me or your therapist, someone who can guide the discussion and support both of you.”

    “That wasn’t my thinking when I came in here.”

    “Yes Joseph.  You were hoping I would tell you fantasizing was normal and acceptable to God.  Sorry I can’t do that.”

    “Thanks pastor.  I’ll think about it.”

    “I’ll pray for you Joseph.  Come back and see me again.”

***

    Joseph was still conflicted.  His therapist said his fantasies were normal and his pastor said they were sinful.  Both said it wasn’t appropriate to act on the fantasies.  Why would God allow me to have these thoughts if it was sinful?  Free will.  So I can’t blame God.  I want to have these thoughts.

    As Joseph was driving home, he saw the lovely young women leaving from work, off to the gym, to meet their boyfriend or for drinks with girl friends.  The twenty something’s were all so fit, with long hair and clothing that invited watching.  They walked lightly in their shoes, some high heels, some flats, some with sneakers.  He wished he were twenty something again himself.  He drove around for another half hour watching, then headed for home.

    “I’m home dear.”  He saw his wife, pretty enough for someone in their 50s.

    “Hi Joe.  How was your day?”

    “Oh, fine.  Nothing unusual.”  He walked over to his wife, put his arms around her and kissed her.  “I love you.”

    “I love you too dear.”

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Cezarija Abartis

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They had courted under the branches of the oak tree sixty years earlier, and she wanted to bury him in its roots. But there were city regulations about burials, and in the end she obeyed. She even wished they had made love in the cemetery the way the other high school kids boasted they did. She and Hank held hands and walked to the library and back–hardly models of steaming romance.

Hank brought her a copy of Romeo and Juliet for her seventeenth birthday. “Well, your name is Julie.” He drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Does that make you Romeo?” she had asked, knowing he would be embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean...” He sighed. “I only wanted to give you the book.”

She patted the cover. “I’ll keep this always.” She held the book to her chest and kissed him on the cheek.

The book sat on the shelf between their photo album and the first novel he published. She became a high school teacher and he a mid-list novelist. He was at his computer when he slumped over at the desk.

She dusted the monitor. He’d been writing a mystery:

“The detective feared going back to his apartment. When he unlocked the door, he smelled the cordite in the air. His heart thumped. The kitten meowed piteously. He almost tramped on the fallen body sprawled on the floor. The kitten meowed again. He turned over the body and recognized his best friend.”

She read the first page: “To my wife, my muse, my sine qua non.” He had dedicated all seven of his books to her. Their children were not much interested in mysteries, though they politely accepted his gifts of books and displayed them prominently on their mantels. Susan practiced law and Ricky sold corporate real estate.

Her neighbor told her about the stages of grief, and that people do come to acceptance. Julie shook her head. Her neighbor said she was almost relieved when her Reynold died after the long illness.

“That was hard,” Julie said. She caressed Dolores’s shoulder, and Dolores burst into tears.

“I guess it’s never over,” Dolores said. “It’s been three years, and I’m still crying.”

The curtains fluttered at the open window and the September breeze. She still thought of September as the real beginning of the year–all those years teaching school and welcoming the students back. The curtains seemed ghostly. Their old kitty, Agnes, jumped on the window sill and watched the squirrels scampering down the oak tree and the cars turning at the corner.

Julie picked up Agnes and held her like a baby in her arms. She was now a skinny cat. The bones of her haunches made her like a halloween cat. Agnes nuzzled her upper arm.

“I remember her as a kitten,” Dolores said. “She tore up my garden once.”

“She’s better behaved now. Hank chose her at the Humane Shelter--the friskiest one in the litter.” Julie hugged Agnes to her chest. “Hank lavished love on this one.” The fur was scraggly. Julie petted her and petted her. She would groom her later.


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Cezarija Abartis' Nice Girls and Other Stories was published by New Rivers Press. Her stories have appeared in Per Contra, Pure Slush, Waccamaw, and New York Tyrant, among others. Her flash, “The Writer,” was selected by Dan Chaon for Wigleaf’s Top 50 online Fictions of 2012.“The Argument,” was chosen by Beate Sigriddaughter as a runner-up for the Fourteenth Glass Woman Prize. Recently she completed a novel, a thriller. She teaches at St. Cloud State University. Her website is http://magicmasterminds.com/cezarija/

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Author: Cezarija Abartis

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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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.


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney