Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Jesus, can we talk? Some folks say you're coming back any day now but many of them have been saying that for years. They say it could happen tomorrow, or maybe next week, and they've already put their affairs in order. They believe they will be swept up and taken into heaven, leaving many others on the ground, just standing there, slack-jawed and staring at all the backsides rising in the air.

I'd like be to among those rising but my Baptist barber says he doesn't think papists will be issued passports for this trip. I've been his customer for 30 years so he plans to take a rope along and drop it down to me. If I grab hold and can hang on, he says I'm welcome to come along if Jesus doesn't cut me loose. I may be a papist, he says, but he knows from all our haircut debates over the years that I believe in Jesus and the bible as the inerrant Word of God. He even tells his Baptist and Four Square Gospel customers I'm okay, theologically speaking.

I keep telling him papists believe in Jesus just as strongly as he does. But that's not what he heard about Catholics growing up in the Ozarks as a child. What's more, since I grew up in Chicago, I talk kind of funny, he says. I always tell him I can sound just like him with a mouth full of cornbread.

In the meantime, Jesus, I need a favor on different matter entirely. I'm hoping you'll find time to make a quick visit to the house of a friend of mine around midnight any night of the week. He's been retired for many years and he's enjoying the fruits of his considerable labors. As I often remind him, he's enjoying the fruits of your favors as well. But he doesn't see it that way, necessarily, if you want to know the truth.

As I see it, you've been very good to this man for more than 70 years but now he needs a different kind of help. Like me, he's old enough to find himself any day now next up in the checkout line. But he talks as though the life we both enjoy has no end in sight. If he didn't live in a far-away city, I'd take him for a haircut at my barber's shop and there he would hear the truth with a little cornbread on the side.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't want to see my friend turn Baptist, not that there's anything wrong with Baptists, as Seinfeld might say. I just want him to get back to Mass every Sunday morning before someone has to push him down the aisle in a wheelchair. He has a lot to be thankful for and maybe not a whole lot of time to say thanks.

You see, he was a high school graduate who became a paratrooper during the Korean War. After he was discharged he found a job as a janitor. In no way dumb, he used diligence and brains to become vice-president of the same company in ten years. He got there by being a good salesman of condiments. The man can talk but then a lot of Irish-American papists can talk. Maybe we can't yodel like the Swiss but we can certainly talk.

Not satisfied with being president of that company, he quit and started his own company. He decided to manufacture and sell products that were just catching on when Woodstock was all the rage. You remember Woodstock. That's where all the musicians and Hippies showed up on a water-logged farm in the Catskills in 1969 to celebrate free love and other developments in society at that time.

In any event, my friend figured that supplying health food to vegans and vegetarians would be a gold mine in the future and it turned out he was right. This is a guy who spent his adolescence at White Castle restaurants eating double cheeseburgers by the sack. It must have taken a conversion experience akin to the one Saul of Tarsus had to get him to try health food. I'm not sure he eats that much of it himself but he sure can sell it.

Thirty years later, with his kids reared and on their own, he sold his company for seven million dollars. I haven't asked him yet if he had any outside help in his success or if he did it all by himself.

He still believed in you while the company was growing but I don't know what happened after that. He's a good man, basically. He has the same wife now as when he was a janitor, a big bunch of kids now grown up and doing well and a flock of grandkids who adore him. Excess of any kind has never been a problem with him. He simply lost his faith somewhere along the road to becoming a millionaire. Other millionaires have followed the same path, I imagine, but I have never known any others, personally.

Many decades ago in grammar school, he and I were always in the same grade and we both believed, without any doubt, that Jesus Christ died on the cross and rose from the dead and opened the gates of heaven for the likes of us and maybe for the likes of the worst of us if they shaped up in time. Now my friend is living the good life but says he doesn't know if you exist or if you died on the cross or if you rose from the dead. He says he'd like to believe in you but he needs some evidence. Otherwise, he says he'll remain an agnostic, a word he says means "I don't know."

Well, Jesus, I don't think his problem is a simple one. First he has to come to believe in God again, a belief some philosophers say a man can reach through reason alone. After all, there are the five proofs for the existence of God that many philosophers accept. But then he has to come to believe again in Jesus Christ--that God sent his only begotten Son to die on the cross for the sins of all mankind. That's the hard part. He can't do that through reason alone. That takes faith, the gift you gave to both of us, the gift he lost and I somehow retained despite being no better than he is.

Jesus, this man is 75 years old so perhaps you can sense the urgency of my request. There's not much time for him to believe again unless, of course, you step in.
That's why I'd like you to drop by his mansion some midnight when you have some free time. Just pull him out of bed by the ankles and hold him upside down for awhile before you introduce yourself. Then tell him you are Jesus Christ, a native of Bethlehem with strong ties to Galilee and Nazareth. Remind him about what you did with the loaves and fishes at Cana and ask him if he sees any parallels to that event in his own life. My hope is that before you leave, or shortly thereafter when someone revives him, he will find that he has the gift of faith again.

You see, I don't know how he lost his faith but I can't find it for him. The nuns who schooled us in the life, death and resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ have been dead for many years. There are a couple of them who might have been able to turn him around. They had a way of making you see the truth. It's amazing how quickly you can see the truth clearly when an old-style nun in a big habit takes time to explain everything half an inch from your nose.

In any event, you gave both of us the gift of faith in 1938, the year of our Baptism, and I somehow still have my faith, despite not leading a noble life. I mean I was honest and was never arrested but there might be a lady or more who would take a bumbershoot to my backside if she ran into me, even at my age.

My friend, on the other hand, has done everything according to the book but he no longer reads the book. So, please, drop by his place some midnight before he dies and yank him out of bed by the ankles. Let him know who you are and mention that you look forward to seeing him at Mass on Sunday. Remind him that he can get a spiritually nutritious bite to eat at any Catholic church in the world in case he still likes to travel. Food that will stick to his soul for the long road ahead.

By the way, this man can afford to tithe, big-time. Even though papists don't tithe the way Protestants do, they nevertheless give a ton of money to charities managed by the Church and other not-for-profit organizations. But it's probably best if we don't mention his ability to tithe to my Baptist barber. He might be tempted to get on a plane and go see if my friend needs a trim.


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Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Tony Battaglia

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When John turned eleven, he got a throwing-knife for his birthday. He'd seen it in the glass case of a shop on Water Street when he went in with his father to buy bread and milk and tobacco, and it had reminded him of a scene from that movie The Magnificent Seven, which he'd been allowed to see only after cleaning his room. He'd begged for it, and his father had said, "Maybe for your birthday."
The knife was a squat, flat strip of metal, blunt and straight along most of its length but carved and sharpened to a point at one end. John's mother had tested it on a veal cutlet she was preparing in the kitchen and declared it to be safe enough.
John spent the rest of his birthday in the backyard, throwing the knife with all of his strength into the upper branches of the big maple tree, then watching it bounce and clatter its way back down from bough to bough and trying again. After a while he got pretty good at chucking it way up there. He was getting some real height.
The next day, a Monday, John had to go to school. The minute he got home, though, he was right back out there lobbing his throwing-knife into the maple tree. He couldn't get it to stick.
For a month or so, things went on this way. Now and then John would forget about the throwing-knife and leave it out in the yard. Before long it was rusted. Most days he would come across it while digging for worms or playing some other solitary game, and he'd give it a few tosses, but his heart wasn't really in it anymore.
One day John's friend Sam came over to play. They were playing Magnificent Seven in the backyard-- John insisted on being Britt, which was fine with Sam since he wanted to be Steve McQueen anyway. They were taking potshots at bandits from behind the woodpile when Sam found the rusty throwing-knife in the grass.
"What's this?" he said.
"That's my throwing-knife. Like in the movie. Watch."
John took the knife and threw it up into the tree. It twirled and pinged its way back down through the branches.
"One day it's going to stick way up there," said John, "and then it'll be up there forever. Even if we move away."
"Let me try," said Sam.
"I've been trying for weeks," said John, "I think it's a dud knife. You'll never get it." But he handed it over.
Sam wound up real good and whipped the knife high. It arced through the air, spinning like a rusty pinwheel, and with a dull thud buried itself in the maple trunk near the tree's crown.


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Tony Battaglia is a writer and painter from Kent, Ohio. His fiction has appeared in Composite Arts Magazine and Red Fez, and his poetry is forthcoming in the Eunoia Review and Circa Review. One time he got an empty fortune cookie and he still worries about that sometimes.

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Author: Tony Battaglia

Contributor: Maddison Scott

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Underwater, his face whirls like a metallic dream. I want to reach up and touch him but he isn't mine.

I latch to a thought I had one summer when I was home alone. I took to the water with clothes still clutching wrinkled skin. When I held my breath, I was pulled away from the sky. There was no sound, only the dim whimper of my heart breathing. It wasn’t difficult to imagine myself as a wreck on the bottom of the ocean, waiting to be found.

I can't hear my name but I see a dancing smudge of pink. It’s my sister. She's waving me up like a distressed Pelican. When I hit the surface, I’m reluctant to anchor my eyes. If I look at him, she’ll know.

“Don’t drown,” my sister clicks, as though the moments are wasted in my presence. My fingers skim the side of the pool and when she’s out of view, I founder.

I cling to the pool's belly with corrugated fingers, my anger effervescing. From below, life is transparent. Distractions don’t claw at my vanity. Weak thoughts don’t sink my esteem.

I'm not even sure when the world dissolves, only that it does. The water stiffens but inside I'm still warm, still drifting. The touch flares like an electric shock –my body a compass flickering back and forth. Below me lies a graveyard of summer memories and above me, its eraser.

He digs his fingers into the soft skin on my shoulder. I'm shaking, my jaw clamped too tight to protest. I feel his breath before his lips but both are welcome. A hand lingers over my heart, my lungs shiver, his lips still affixed. When I open my eyes he pulls me close, whispering words that melt my bones.

I reach up to touch him and this time, there's no water between us.


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Maddison Scott recently graduated from the University of Melbourne with a BA in Creative Writing. She loves to run marathons (of the TV-watching variety) and previous work has appeared in The Eunoia Review and Daily Love.

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Author: Maddison Scott

Contributor: John Laneri

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I recently worked Montgomery Forest, a state wildlife preserve in East Texas. My intentions were to reappraise the site before opening it to the public.

As usual, most of my day was routine. Around five o'clock though, after an uneventful ten hours of following animal trails, I tucked my notebook away and turned for home. By then, I was ready to call it a day.

A few minutes later though, I heard movement in the brush. Curious, I stopped to take a closer look, wondering if the sounds were coming from the immature bobcat that had been tracking me for much of the day. I first noted its footprints near a creek earlier in the day.

After failing to see any activity, I continued on, remembering that Maggie expected me to attend a dinner party with her club group later that evening.

Suddenly, I spotted a snake about twenty yards ahead of me – its black body gleaming in the remaining sunlight. While snakes were common in the area, I rarely saw one in the open, especially one so large.

Quietly, I edged behind a tree and watched it pause and lift away from the ground before swinging its body from side to side as if searching.

Once I watched it coil in the shadows beside a tree, I began to wonder if it had produced the sounds that I had interpreted as a bobcat's. Some snakes, I knew, were skilled trackers – a thought that sent a series of shivers racing along my spine as that inevitable burst of adrenalin kicked into my system.

Logic suggested that I move past it without being seen so I decided to backtrack and circle rather than take my chances on a direct confrontation.

Soon, I was making my way along the side of a rocky hill that would take me toward the creek near my truck. Unexpectedly, the rocks were loose, and a few broke away under my feet. I looked toward the tree and saw the snake come away from the ground and turn sharply toward me.

Our eyes met.

In an instant, I was running, my arms and legs pumping frantically – fear taking control of my senses.

Finally, after what I thought was a safe distance, I looked back… no sign of the snake, so I eased into a slow jog and continued down the hill, wondering why I had acted so foolish. After all, I was a professional naturalist, a person comfortable with the out of doors.

Near the creek, I looked back to check my progress. That’s when I saw it again – all six feet of black, menacing snake moving like a demon, its body flying across the hilltop, charging directly toward me.

Certain that it was chasing me, I resumed running, my arms and legs charged with the terror coursing through my body. I chanced another look. To my surprise, it was closer, its body whipping back and forth, gaining steadily.

A moment later, I stumbled and fell, my momentum sending me rolling downhill and into the creek.

Spitting out a mouthful of water, I looked about and spotted it, watching from the bank, its eyes anticipating my next move. I took several steps to the side. It mimicked the move. I turned in the other direction. It followed, the tongue flicking back and forth.

Smart snake, I thought as I backed away and began wading toward the far side of the creek confident that once I had put the water behind me I’d be safe. I had to be smarter than a snake – at least that was my impression at the time.

It must have known what I had intended because it slipped into the water and continued in my direction, its sleek body speeding smoothly across the surface.

Turning away, I started a frenzied run up of the last hill toward my truck. Near the ridge, I looked back and saw it come roaring out of the water, again moving directly toward me.

Staggering on, I spotted my truck across an open plain and turned toward it, knowing that I was close to the end of my endurance.

Almost immediately, the snake was beside me, striking my pant leg – its body whipping back and forth, matching me stride for stride. Angling away, I took another deep breath, digging deep to grasp whatever energy I could muster.

Much to my surprise, it edged ahead of me then suddenly, it turned and coiled, it’s mouth poised.

I sidestepped to avoid the thrust, but my shoe caught a rock that sent me tumbling out of control. After that, it was on me, slithering across my shoulders and around my neck, its body wrapped around mine. I reached to fling it away. Then, coming to my feet, I sprinted the remaining few yards to the truck and threw myself inside, my nerves shot.

As I frantically dug into my pocket for the truck keys, I again spotted it in front of the truck. Strangely, I noticed it stop and look back in my direction. Once our eyes met, it lifted off the ground and presented me with what I can only describe as a look of satisfaction.

Ramming the gearshift into drive, I stomped the gas intent on getting my revenge. But for reasons that I cannot fully explain, I hit the brakes, skidded to a stop and waited until it had safely disappeared into the brush. Only then did I take a deep breath and head for home.

Maggie was not happy when I arrived late for her dinner party. But as I tried to explain, it’s not often one comes face to face with an aggressive snake.

Surprisingly, her dinner group was enthralled by my story.

Of course, I failed to mention that the snake had been a Black Racer, a non-poisonous species – one to be respected but not feared.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Casey Sean Harmon

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Ever since the night of the terrible thunderstorm, Susan, the Bull Terrier, had a suspicious turn of mind. Everyone knew it. The Anderson family worried something fierce over her, for she no longer spent her time loping in the back yard or playing ball with the children. She wasn’t an old dog, either. In fact she was quite young. There was still that cute puppy look on her face and her tail still managed to wag whenever that certain spot just above her stomach was rubbed. Well, it did wag, before the awful thunderstorm. The fact is that no dog ages that fast. No dog. But it wasn’t until the night of the 7th, just as the old clock in the den struck 9:00, that Mr. Anderson started believing that the Bull Terrier was no normal dog.
He was writing in his record book, of course. Mr. Anderson, being a man of stature, always kept to a schedule. Starbucks coffee and the newest innovations could wait if it meant going over their allowed budget. The children were tucked in their beds. Mrs. Anderson was upstairs in her bed, thinking about the many chores that awaited her the next day. The grand old house was clean as it could be, yet Mrs. Anderson could always find something out of place. About the time Peter Anderson closed his record book and started to stand he noticed that Susan had crept into the study. This was odd. Susan was usually asleep at the foot of Charles’ bed at this time of night. Peter regarded her as she sat before him, staring. “What’s the matter, girl?” he asked, never anticipating that she would actually reply; and yet, when it happened, there was the surest certainty that he was not imagining things.
The night passed very slowly for Mr. Anderson. He couldn’t sleep. All night he stared up at the ceiling. Next morning Peter wrapped a chain around Susan’s neck and tied her off to a tree in the back yard. When Mrs. Anderson and the children asked what he was doing, he replied: “Never mind. Susan must get happy again.” All week Mr. Anderson ignored Susan. He never went out to visit her. He refused to allow anyone else to visit her. Time after time Susan’s words would play throughout Peter’s mind. Often Peter would wake up in the middle of the night drenched with sweat and shaking all over.
He tightened their budget. The children couldn’t understand why he no longer wanted to play with them. He never smiled, he never laughed. With everything he did he kept a close eye on the back yard where Susan sat, silently staring at the house.
One day he woke up and stomped out and shortened Susan’s chain. He kept doing this day after day; Susan willingly edged closer and closer to the tree, until only three feet of chain remained.
On the 23rd Mr. and Mrs. Anderson got into a fight. Mrs. Anderson demanded that he tell her once and for all what was going on. “It is the only way for Susan to straighten out,” he would say. “You, fix us a meal. Do something besides clean!” Charles, the oldest, decided he would sneak out one afternoon and pour some food into Susan’s bowl, for she hadn’t eaten in almost a week and all the water she received was what came in the rain. Mr. Anderson caught him in the act and spanked him and told him to never try such a foolish thing again.
On the 25th Mr. Anderson awoke with a start. He carried a rifle with him as he walked out the back door. He aimed, pulled the trigger, and killed Susan right on the spot. As he walked back to the house he felt a relief in his heart. “It is over,” he thought. “Now I don’t have to worry anymore.” He told his family that Susan had tried to attack him so he had to shoot her.
A bad storm was forming outside. Peter Anderson took his family and together they huddled closely in the storm shelter. “It’s over,” he kept saying to himself, a wad of anxiety stuck in his throat. He swallowed deeply. “My worries are over.”
At exactly 3:00 that day a huge meteor entered the earth’s atmosphere. It fell closer and closer to the ground, until it came to rest atop the storm shelter in which the Anderson family huddled. Everyone was killed instantly, except for Peter, who, struggling to breathe, said, “If only I had listened to you, Susan. If only I had listened to your warning.”
In heaven, Mrs. Anderson and her children stood next to Susan, who gazed downward at earth with tears in her eyes.


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Casey Sean Harmon is a bestselling author and a Soldier in the U.S. Army. He has studied with the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writer's Guild, and holds a degree through American Military University. He lives with his wife and son wherever the military sends them. Please visit his website for the latest: www.caseyseanharmon.com

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Author: Casey Sean Harmon

Contributor: David L. Nye

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“Ambulance needed at corner of Murphy and Seven. 82 respond.”
It always starts with a call.
The driver tears toward the location and, before I know it, we have the patient loaded in the back and I’m trying to keep him going as we fly to the emergency room.
This time, it’s a car crash victim and I’m pumping fluids into his veins to replace the blood still leaking from his thigh.
I’m focused, clear-headed.
I’m off my medications.
The meds keep the voices away but they make it almost impossible to treat patients. I lost a man because I couldn’t work through the fog, never again.
“Ten minutes,” Ben, the driver says.
I check the bandage again; the bleeding seems slower but I can’t tell for sure without removing it. I check the blood pressure… too low.
I increase the IV flow, the saline will increase the volume of his blood. I check his pupils and…
“What’s that?” the priest asks.
He sits, as he usually does, in the empty chair for family members to ride to the hospital.
“It’s nothing, just a burst vessel in his eye.”
“How can you be sure? Do you think the devil announces his presence? No, we must always be wary of the signs he approaches.” The priest is rotating the rosary beads as he speaks.
The patient’s face twists to one side and his mouth flies open; a moan escapes.
“There!” the priest points at the man and I hear not just the moan of one man, but of thousands. The priest is right…
“Seven minutes, man.” Ben’s voice sends the priest and the demon running, and it’s just the patient and I again.
The bandages are doing their job. I reassess my interventions, a practice they taught us in school. Always check, again and again. Bandages are good, saline line is good.
“Hey, buddy?” the patient doesn’t respond to my voice. Not good, he reacted when we picked him up. He’s falling further…
“Why wouldn’t he respond?” Father Todd asks.
“He could be sinking deeper into shock, or he’s lost more blood. He’s still bleeding.”
“Why else?”
I remain silent.
“Why else wouldn’t he respond, Scott?”
Father Todd leans in to me, he whispers in my ear.
“Why else would he be unable to respond? What if he is no longer in control of his body?”
I try to ignore him as I work, but his question nags at me. The patient is not bleeding heavily enough to be losing consciousness, and the shock should be wearing off. He should be responding more easily, not less.
I check my interventions again. Bandages are good, saline is good, patient does not respond to sound or touch.
“Check him, check to see if he responds to pain.”
Father Todd is right, it’s the next level of patient consciousness, and I need to check.
I rub his sternum, my knuckles digging into the soft, tender flesh on top of his ribs. His skin is crushed between his own bones and my knuckles.
His eyes flash open.
“Mary, mother of Jesus!”
Father Todd’s voice echoes through the cramped back of the ambulance but I barely hear it over my own heart. My heart hammers in my ears as I stare into the patient’s eyes, now full red. Both eyes. Not even a pupil is visible.
“Father, what do I…” I start to ask, but Ben interrupts me.
“Four minutes, almost there.”
The priest is gone, it’s just the patient and I again.
I close my eyes and count to ten.
Check the interventions.
Saline is good. Bandage is good. Bleeding seems to be under control, either slowed to a trickle or ceased. I can’t tell through the bandage.
I don’t want to look.
I check blood pressure again.
I don’t want to look.
I scribble on the chart.
I don’t want to look, but I do.
His eyes are closed.
I speak to him again.
“Hey, bro?”
His eyes flutter open this time, but it is not the patient in charge of them.
“Father!?” I whisper, panicked, into the closed air. “Father! Oh, please don’t leave me here.”
“I see it, son.” The priest is back.
“It can’t be.”
“It is, and you must stop it,” Father Todd says, calmly. I listen to his voice, my only sure thing in this world. I thank God he got on with us, at the crash site. I’m so thankful there is a priest to help me. If I was the only one in the ambulance, I don’t now what I’d do.
“You must kill him.” My stomach twists at Father Todd’s words.
“I can’t, Father. I can’t. He’s my patient.”
“No, no longer. He’s…”
“Two minutes, get ready to offload him!” Ben’s voice cuts through the back of the ambulance. I shake my head to clear it and do a final check of the interventions. All good. I go to check the restraints.
He grabs me; his hand has an unnatural grip on my arm. I can feel heat searing through my flesh and my bones crunching in his strength.
“Do it! You have to stop him! You’re the only one!” Father Todd screams into my ear.
My eyes well with tears from the pain, but I get my free hand to the bandages and pull them away. There is a clot underneath; I peel it free of the skin. I punch the soft flesh, clearing any clots inside the tissue. Crimson spurts onto the bandage as I get my arm free of the weakening grip. He won't survive that blood loss.
I feel the ambulance coming to a halt and push the bandage back into position.
The doors open and ER nurses take the beast away.
I climb from the ambulance and look at my wrist.
Nothing.
The skin is flawless.
Nothing.
“Burn victim at Oak and Jackson, 82 respond!”
It always starts with a call.


- - -
A former paratrooper and military journalist in the U.S. Army, David is a creative writing student in Florida.

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Author: David L. Nye

Contributor: Hailey Hartford

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“It’s just a car,” I kept telling myself, like a mantra. Over and over and over. “It’s just a car.”
But it was staring. At me. The headlights looked so incriminating, and I felt dirty. I wiped my back and looked at my palm. No dirt. Just a feeling.
After a day or so of watching the car parked next to my house, I decided to look at more than just the bow. The back right bumper had caved in quite a bit, and looked rather rusty. Why didn’t the whole car rust over?
I sat back down next to the front again and resumed the staring competition. It got more and more intense, and I had to look away a few times. It won, and I continued to feel guilty. Where was the guilt coming from?
It was starting to get dark, but the car was parked directly beneath the street lamp. It looked angrier with me, even though I couldn’t see the headlights anymore. It was all shadows and shining chrome.
A shiver ran through me, even before the wind started to pick up. When it did, I didn’t leave. I just kept repeating, “it’s just a car. It’s just a car.”
The leaves were getting picked up in the late-night breeze, and I caught glimpses in them in the street lamp light. The concrete on the sidewalk shone when they left, almost as bright as the chrome. It shone and shone, right into my eyes. And it hurt, but I looked anyways.
There was rust. Just like on the bumper. Was it rust?
I scooted closer and squinted. It wasn’t as orange as it was dark red. Blood, maybe?
I began to panic. Why was a car dripping blood parked next to my house? Is a murderer loose on our street? I scooted back to the front, and then a few more scoots further up my driveway.
“Tom, sweetie. Are you coming in? You need to go to bed,” my mother’s voice brought me to my feet. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. She looked worried. “We’re all worried about her, Tommy. But staying out here all night isn’t going to get her home any sooner. The police looked for her all day today, and said we can join them tomorrow.”
Who were we all worried about? Why were the police looking for her? I tried to make my confusion look somewhat like concern. My mother walked out to me, put her robe about my shoulders, and led my inside. She looked so scared.
“I’m sure she’s alright,” I finally choked out when we made it up the stairs.
“I’m sure she is,” she smiled. “Your sister’s a strong girl. She’s young, but there’s a fire in her. Anyone that crosses her is sure to get a beating.” Her own jokes seemed to reassure her of her daughter’s, my sister’s, safety. “I’m glad you were the last face she got to see before-“ she cut herself off. She swallowed hard and smiled again. “She’s fine.”
I said goodnight, and she did the same. After closing my door, I went to the window. The car was in view.
“It’s only a car.”
Where’d Izzy go? That couldn’t be her blood, could it?
“It’s only a car.”


- - -

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Author: Hailey Hartford

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Teddy Fister took the bus to work today, something he will never do again, unless the used car he plans to buy tonight also croaks in the middle of an intersection the way his 1960 Rambler did last night. He sold the clunker on the spot to the tow-truck driver who took it to his junkyard. And that's where his beloved Rambler, and its 210,000 miles, sits in a row with other cars, some terminal and others deceased, every one of them waiting for an automotive mortician to part them out.

That unfortunate incident is why Teddy is on the bus this morning, bouncing up and down with others, including a rotund man, redolent of garlic, who took the seat next to Teddy a moment ago. The rotund man is Oliver Beckin. After he settled in next to Teddy, he began a soliloquy that everyone on the bus could hear if not enjoy. The oratory was very philosophical in nature. Some might even say it was spiritual in that it was an account of how Oliver had reached the age of 50 this day without any idea of where he was going after he died. And on this particular day, after a lifetime of not caring about that subject, Oliver Beckin was looking for an answer, if an answer to a question like that was available.

Pausing in his speech, Oliver asked his seat mate, Teddy Fister, if Teddy might be able to help him find the answer. After all, Teddy looked like an intelligent man and Oliver figured that he probably knew where he was going after he died. Actually, Teddy was going to his day job as a dishwasher in one of the better restaurants downtown, a job he had held for 30 years. His longevity in the position was due to Teddy being a dependable sort, one who always knew when a dish needed a second scrubbing.

At first Teddy didn't know what to say. He had never had the problem that Oliver had. He knew for a long time where he was going once his toes turned up. In fact, he had known the answer since grammar school. The nuns had told him every year in religion class what his options were and it was something he never forgot. He'd have choices to make along the way, of course, but the choices were easy ones to make.

Teddy's problem at the moment, however, was that he had no car. Since he had no newspaper to read, either, and since Oliver didn't seem to be an urban crazy, Teddy thought, what the hell, he'd give it a go, maybe he could help this guy. After all, popes have been telling Catholics like Teddy for years that they must begin to evangelize and spread the faith, even if most Catholics--and Teddy was certainly among their number--were not in the same class as Mormons and Witnesses when it came to evangelization. But if Oliver didn't know where he was going, Teddy could at least explain what his options were before he had to get off the bus.

Teddy decided to get right to the point. He asked Oliver if he believed in God. Oliver said he didn't know whether he did or not since he had never met God and didn't know anyone who had but he was open to an introduction if that was something Teddy could arrange.

"I'm single and I'm free most evenings and weekends," Oliver said.

Teddy asked him if he had heard about Jesus Christ who died on the cross for the sins of every man who ever lived or will live.

"That's according to those of us who follow him, of course," Teddy said. "Some people might disagree with that and that's their right. We all have free will."

Oliver said he had heard about Jesus and thought that anyone with more than 2000 years of shelf life had to have something going for Him. He indicated, however, that he had not been too impressed over the years with many of the followers of Jesus, especially the ones who rang his doorbell at odd hours. Even worse were those who yelled at him from his television set while he was surfing cable channels looking for something interesting to watch. Preachers were not the kind of people Oliver cottoned to.

"The people who ring my doorbell give me leaflets in tiny print," Oliver told Teddy, "and the preachers on television want my money. Not good."

Teddy told him he wasn't looking for money but he thought people like Oliver who don't know where they were going ought to meet Jesus. This is important, Teddy said, even if many of those who already know Jesus can at times be an aggravating bunch. Teddy himself had been accosted many times by street proselytizers who wanted to save him from damnation. Their rhetoric would grow even stronger, Teddy said, when he would tell them he was Catholic.

Oliver seemed to relax a bit after hearing that Teddy didn't want his money so Teddy decided to press on. He leaned forward and quietly told Oliver he should call on the Holy Spirit to provide him with the gift of faith because faith cannot be earned by any man. And it takes faith to believe in Jesus. And one has to believe in Jesus as Savior to be a Christian.

"Faith is a gift from God," Teddy said. "Once you have the gift of faith, you'll know that the Holy Spirit and God the Father and Jesus are three divine persons in one God. The Trinity is a mystery so it might help you to think about it as kind of a trifecta."

Teddy figured Oliver might understand a term like trifecta better than a term like Trinity in light of the racing form sticking out of his coat pocket.

Teddy admitted that he was partial to the Holy Spirit because he had always thought of Him as the Rodney Dangerfield of the Trinity in that He never seemed to get the degree of respect that believers give to God the Father and God the Son.

"But that's understandable," Teddy said, "because God the Father created the universe and everything in it and God the Son died on the cross to open the Gates of Heaven for every man, even for wretches like you and me. Many believers think of the Holy Spirit as simply a dove or a tongue of fire whose big day is Pentecost. There's a lot more to the Holy Spirit than that."

Oliver was not particularly happy about being called a wretch. He became even more unsettled when Teddy told him that he needed to ask the Holy Spirit to introduce him to Jesus. Oliver didn't know the Holy Spirit any more than he knew Jesus.

Teddy also told Oliver he was telling him all this because he didn't want Oliver to end up like his 1960 Rambler, sitting in a junkyard waiting to be parted out.

Then, as quickly as Teddy's first effort at evangelization had started, it was over. Oliver was ready to make a decision. He smiled at Teddy, rose from his seat and thanked him for explaining everything in such detail. Then Oliver headed for the empty couch seat in the back of the bus. There he began talking out loud again about trying to figure out where he had come from and where he was going.

One stop later, Teddy got up and got off the bus. He had arrived at the restaurant. Moments later he would be in the steamy confines of the dish room where he was master of all he surveyed.


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Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting

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Stephen was nervous. The competition looked prepared, but he wasn’t sure about himself. He'd practiced at least two hours a day for the past month. He'd like to say his parents forced him to, but he couldn’t lie; he pushed himself into it.
Stephen saw all the other children in the piano competition. They were pretty good. They were dressed at their best as he was. The girls wore glittery blouses or Sunday dresses. The boys dressed in mini tuxedos.
Even though they were children it was still very intense. The judges sat in the front row of the theatre. The remaining expanse of red seats was empty. Stephen could see the judges taking terse notes with disapproving expressions on their faces.
The pianists in this group weren’t amateurs. They were all gifted prodigies. It was regrettable, but each hoped the other one might take a dive. They also worried it would happen to themselves.
Stephen could feel the sweat on his face. He knew he wasn’t the best. They scheduled him last. It was just as well. This was Stephen’s first competition.
The spotlight was followed each piano player to the black Steinway grand piano in center stage. Stephen watched the others play. He had to admit they knew their craft. Only two made obvious mistakes. Though only a few notes fell out of order they knew the damage had been done. Each left early out the back door.
It was an hour and a half until Stephen got his chance. He walked onto the stage. He was average looking. He had brown curly hair, was kind of short for a ten year old, but still all right. His slacks dragged on the floor. He tried to approach the piano with confidence.
But he didn’t sit in the chair. Stephen stood his distance.
Now the judges would see how he played.
Stephen closed his eyes and concentrated on the piano in front of him. He picked a hard piece but one he knew he could master.
He focused his mind on the piano. The white and black keys moved by themselves. Fortunately Stephen chose not to look at the judges. One was annoyed, another shocked, the last one put down his pencil. Technically, Stephen played the piece well. Stephen also played it passionately. He knew that capturing the emotion of the piece was one of the most important things about playing the piano. After releasing the last note Stephen knew he had performed at his absolute best and far better than the rest of the competitors.
Stephen turned to bow and glanced at the judges.
He knew he hadn’t won by the looks on their faces.
Stephen went backstage. Fifteen minutes later the judges came back with their decisions.
A girl who he admitted was excellent won. Stephen didn’t make second or third place. He was disqualified.
“But I played the best of them,” he pouted.
His parents patted him on the back and said, “Maybe you should try and play piano the normal way.”
“Who says I’ll be any good at it? I’ve been practicing for years this way as it is.”
“Well maybe you should go the carnival route,” his father said.
Stephen frowned as he left the building.


- - -
I love to write. I'm 29. I live in Mesa, AZ.

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: Vela Damon

- -

"Well, I guess you could get that one if you want…you know…the worst performance ever."

Kirsten let out a sigh. Why did Micha always have to be such a techno snob? So what if she was being a total girl, deciding on a laptop just because it came in hot pink and neon green? But of course Micha had to go on about megabytes this and RAM that and streaming video the other. The laptop she recommended: boring black and twice as much as the one in the cool colors. Kirsten automatically winced at the price tag, wondering for the thousandth time if she'd ever be rid of the habit.

Micha didn't bat an eyelash, but Micha hadn't grown up dirt poor; both of her parents were doctors.

Kirsten sighed again. “Are you sure this one's worth the extra money?"

She didn't hear half the response, tuning Micha out once she started back up with all the techo jargon, thinking instead about her new circle of friends, how they were all so quick to whip out their debit cards, I'll take it! forming on their lips before they'd hardly stepped foot in the store. It didn't matter which store or what they were taking—all about the conquest, snatching up the latest designer bag or smartphone to use as spackle, attempting to patch up the holes in their hungry little upper class hearts.

And now Kirsten was supposed to be one of them?

Micha prattled on, building up to her big and that's why this is the greatest computer ever! finale. Kirsten cut her off by waving the sales guy over to unlock the cabinet; maybe she'd get lucky and the boring laptop would be out of stock.

No. At least a dozen boring boxes were crammed into the skinny shelves, probably because everybody else didn't have a friend like Micha and just bought the cool-colored computer they actually wanted.

Note to self: never bring Micha shopping again.

The sales guy rang her up right there in the computer department, cutting off all routes of escape. Kirsten clung to her debit card a little too tightly; the poor guy had to pry it from her fingers.

Edwin, his name tag read above the store's not-so-catchy slogan. How may I HELP you today?

Kirsten assumed that the slogan would make more sense if she understood what HELP meant. Obviously some sort of acronym, but for what? Here Everybody Loves Profiteering?

Edwin attempted to sell her the extended warranty. Kirsten declined. He asked if she needed a USB cable, a laptop bag, a printer. No, thank you. After running the gauntlet of up-selling, she entered her pin number, hesitated over the Is This the Correct Amount? button.

Edwin made an eek! face, smiled. "I know it's a lot of money, but this is a really good laptop. It's gotten great reviews and we haven't had any in for repairs."

"It's just...I could pay all my bills for the month with this."

"This'll last way more than a month," Micha cut in. "And it's the best one for the money."

Edwin nodded. "It has almost all the same features as the pricier models. It really is the best deal."

Kirsten hit the YES button, felt as if the blood were draining from her veins as the money drained from her checking account. If only she could have a nice, thick, cheap chocolate shake from The Shake Shack to help wash down her buyer's remorse…but Micha wouldn't go for it. She'd rather have a $6.75 wheatgrass smoothie from Bountiful Beverage Barn.

A receipt as long as Kirsten’s arm spit out of the register.
Edwin studied it a moment before folding it up, handing it over. "Have a good day, Kirstin."

"Thanks. You, too. So, what does HELP stand for?"

He looked puzzled. Kirsten nodded toward his name tag.

"Oh. That. It doesn't really mean anything. Just that we're here to help."

Kirsten glanced over at Micha, lured away once again by the siren song of $pend, turned back to non-doctor, non-lawyer, non-upper class but damn cute Edwin. "So, do you like The Shake Shack?"

- - -
Vela Damon lives in the Lone Star State and likes writing short stories, proving that everything is actually NOT bigger in Texas.

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Author: Vela Damon