Contributor: Tod Connor

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"Let's make love, Rebecca."

"I will not. You don't dip into the honeypot by simply asking, that isn't the way the game is played. You must complete the stages, and the first one is eye lock."

"I thought it was hard cock."

"Not in my book. If you don't qualify for some good eye lock then the game ends then and there."

"And there are other stages?"

"Of course. The next stage I call moved by sound. Your lips must make noises that please my warm places or you're outta here."

"Is that it?"

"Of course not. The final stage, and the most important I might add, is mystery. Your eye lock, combined with your noises must create movement without pattern, endless potential that stimulates like a wild garden."

"And then, after I succeed in completing these three stages, then you will invite me into the sacred temple?"

"Not necessarily, but your chances will have improved considerably."

Head drops, voice lowers, mumbles are let loose. "Hard, it's always hard."

"It's hard because you're a randy prankster, a stud without a hot, sweaty filly in your stable." She laughs.

"True enough, but I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about the stages you've defined with such precision."

"They're not hard. They constitute a shining path blazing its way into the world of coupling."

"And this ocean of yours, this vast, churning white froth, is it worth that much effort?"

"You decide. That's the beauty of it, the freedom of it, you decide. Now, stir the sand soup before it burns the bottom. "

"Stone soup, not sand soup."

"Whatever..."

He watches her, bustling with confidence, trimmed like a holy candle. She's left him shackled, chewing on the meat of this rejection.

She turns to him. "Do you know your essence?" she asks.

"I've always seen myself as a rebel, a bad boy lost in the search for oblivion. I only want to jump and fly above the fray where the angels pump their wings and make their way from soul to soul like butterflies sniffing at purple flowers in the sunshine."

"Not true... You're a procrastinator, putting off that moment when everything, for as far as the eye can see, is smoldering in the wreckage of searing clear consciousness."

"So that's your game?"

"Take it or leave it."


- - -
Tod Connor's work has appeared in various publications, including Talon Magazine, Ohio Views, Raphael’s Village, Apropos Literary Journal, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Smashed Cat, Out of the Gutter, Christianity Today and others.

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Author: Tod Connor

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Tim Murnane had been lying in bed and staring at the ceiling of his hospital room when a strange woman suddenly walked in. A mature, nice-looking lady, she wasn't a doctor or nurse. She was dressed in her Sunday best--a voluminous skirt, puffy white blouse he could almost see through, and a pill box hat. He hadn't seen a pill box hat on a woman since Jackie Kennedy was in the White House back when he was a young man. This woman, however, was carrying a Bible, not an elegant purse.

"Mr. Murnane, my name is Ophelia Barnes and I wonder if you might be willing to give me a few minutes of your time. I understand you recently had an operation."

"I did indeed," said Tim. "They took out my appendix and my gallbladder, too, when they found it was bad. I'll be here awhile longer while they run some other tests. At my age, things can go wrong, you know, and they want to see if they can find anything else."

"Very true, Mr. Murnane. Folks I know have been dying at a faster rate than usual in recent years. It can be frightening but it happens to all of us. If you don't mind, Mr. Murnane, please tell me where you think you would go if you died tonight."

"Well," said Tim, beginning to get the direction of the conversation, "I'd probably go to Egan's Funeral Home up on 63rd Street. I went through pre-arrangement counseling there and paid for everything--the box and the plot. I took care of all that for myself when I had to bury the wife a few years back. Got nice discount. In fact, the plot's in St. Adalbert's Cemetery, just up the road, not far from here."

All of that was true. Tim Murnane had made all the arrangements to be "salted away," as he had told his seven kids, who were now all busy raising families of their own in different cities. But he figured if he told this woman he was going to Eagan's and then to St. Adalbert's, she'd know he was Catholic and perhaps not ripe for harvesting for whatever well-meaning Christian church she represented.

"Mr. Murnane, I meant if you died tonight, would you go to Heaven or Hell?"

"That's an excellent question, Mrs. Barnes. If I had a chance to go to confession before I died, I wouldn't go to Hell, God forbid, but probably not right to Heaven either. I'd probably have to spend several centuries in Purgatory, burning off the stains of a very sinful life. And I have no objection to that. I will have earned my entire stay. I don't drink and I don't smoke but over the years I've always found women attractive, if you know what I mean."

Mrs. Barnes didn't really grasp that Old Tim, although a lapsed Catholic for decades, was not about to switch denominations this close to the finish line. He had been a White Sox fan his entire life and would die cheering them as well, never the Cubs. So she was ready to press on when Tim, warming to the challenge, asked a question.

"Mrs. Barnes, if I joined your church right now, what are the chances you'd visit my grave? All my kids live out of town and I'd rather not disturb them."

"Mr. Murnane, If you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior right now, I promise I will visit your grave. You could even be buried by our church. It would be a beautiful ceremony. We'd love to have you, dead or alive."

"Mrs. Barnes, I do accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I always have, ever since grammar school. I'd have never graduated if I hadn't learned about Jesus dying for my sins from all those nuns, God bless 'em. They taught me from first grade on that if I had been the only human being on Earth, Jesus would have died for me alone. Of course, they let me know too that I had to keep his commandments as well as believe in him. There were only a couple of commandments I've had trouble with. I mean, I never stole anything or killed anyone."

"You'e right, Mr. Murnane. Jesus would have died for you alone. And if you decide to join my church, I promise I will visit your grave."

"You wouldn't have to bring any flowers or anything, Mrs. Barnes. Just walk right up on the gravesite and stand next to my tombstone."

"Stand next to your tombstone? Why would I do that, Mr. Murnane?"

"Well, if I start feelin' a little better, I'd like look up your skirt."

Mrs. Barnes didn't faint but she did walk out of the room without saying a word.

And Tim Murnane pushed the buzzer for the nurse. He wanted to see if she would ask the next priest she saw making rounds to stop by his room. A couple of priests had stopped in already but Tim hadn't been ready for anything serious. Thanks to Mrs. Barnes, however, he knew now that he'd like to give any priest a real earful. It had been 30 years since his last confession and he had plenty to talk about. At 74, he wanted to be ready before going to Eagan's.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Reese Scott

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He painted green lights all over his room. But it did no good. So instead he went to the corners of the street late at night and climbed up a ladder until he was able to remove the red, yellow and green lights. After he had gotten the green light out, he climbed back up the ladder and put back the red and yellow lights. He figured nobody would tell the difference and sadly he was right.

Each night and each morning he stared at the blinking green light. It controlled him. He had read every self help book. Seen all the therapists in the yellow pages. Tried every type of drug the doctors offered. But nothing changed.

Each morning he would hear the same voice:

“You fucking pussy get out of bed!”

“And stop looking at that stupid green light for Christ sakes. Green isn’t even a nice color.”

But the green light had very little do with the color green. It had something to do with something he was unable to get in touch with. He had gone through a list of traumatic events in a psychology book. He wasn’t molested. If he were it would have been by someone green. And he didn’t want to start entreating alien probes. He was never been beaten up by dollar bills or dressed in only green clothes. The bread he ate growing up did not have spots of green from being old.

In fact he could find nothing wrong at all. As far as he could tell he had nothing to complain about. He had grown up in a middle to upper middle class. Had never known poverty. Grew up in a house with a garage. A Mother and Father. There was nothing there.

Except that green light that he stared at, watching it blink on and off. He tried to think of something positive about having a green light in his room. But he couldn’t think of anything. For a moment he thought maybe if he were Irish that would mean something. But if he were Irish it wouldn’t make any difference. He had read up on Irish history and there was nothing on green street lights.

He had an enormous pile of books stacked up against the wall that he had taken out of the library. He had taken so many out he wasn’t allowed back again. The librarian told him he was the first person she had blackballed from a public library.

“Why?” he asked

“You just answered your own question.”

He walked out feeling better until he realized he didn’t have a clue what she meant.

One morning, when he had read all the books he had taken from the library, he decided to return them all and see if he was allowed in the library. His apartment was a twenty minute walk to the library. Carrying a large amount of hard covered books wasn’t easy. He was able to put some in his backpack. Some in a small luggage bag and the remaining books he held in his arms. He felt like one of those models who is supposed to learn to walk right by putting a book on his head. Even though he knew this made no sense. Walking down the side walk he noticed the sky looked like it wasn’t going to rain. There weren’t many cars on the street. And there was a nice quiet scent in the air. He saw a dog on the other side of the street.

He waited at the sidewalk for the sign to turn to walk. When it turned he began to walk across the street. He saw the dog look up at him. It had a strange expression on his face. He didn’t hear anything after that. All he knew was he was on the concrete. A car was on top of him. He wasn’t able to move his legs or arms. He was unable to hear. The only thing he could see was the dog’s face, the blood flowing from his ears and the street light blinking green.


- - -
Reese Scott is from New York. He is currently living in California.

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Author: Reese Scott

Contributor: André-Naquian Wheeler

- -
We were wrestling in Joshua's backyard and Joshua was on top of me, winning as usual, when I sat up suddenly. I wanted to taste the smoothness of his oatmeal colored skin. I leaned in to kiss him and allowed my love to fall either on a pair of receptive lips or on the cold hard ground of shame. Luckily, I felt the squishiness of his lips battling with mine and I closed my eyes and enjoyed the pomegranate chap-stick taste of his bean-bag lips. I swear to you I could feel him smiling. He was smiling I tell you and that’s how I’ll be able to sleep tonight after all of this. Knowing that during that one moment in time that he was breaking hours of temple and Torah studies to swim naked in love, Joshua was happy.
When we broke away from each other we didn’t say or do anything. We just stared at each other and allowed what had just taken place to sink inside of our minds. Then, suddenly, Joshua pushed me to the ground with a cold, hard thrust and knocked the wind, and happiness, out of me. Then he got off of me and crawled a few feet away and began to pray feverishly.
“Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me...” Joshua repeated over and over again. “Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me…”
I crawled over to him and placed my hand on his shaking back, “Joshua I’m sorry I just-”
He turned around violently and screamed in an agony so loud I’m sure that blood had to be swimming inside of his throat. “Don’t touch me faggot!”
“Joshua I’m-”
“You’ve ruined me!” He screamed and began to claw at himself madly. On his chiseled arm in thick deep red lines he carved in “D-E-A-T-H” with his nails and I sat by helplessly and foolishly in awe at the power of my tainted love.
I knew that this was a problem bigger than me so I ran out of Joshua's backyard and over to the temple next door. I ran inside, interrupting the service in progress, and yelled out to the Rabbi: “Joshua is going to kill himself! Joshua is going to kill himself!” I don’t know where those words came from or who thought of them because up until that moment I had been telling myself that this was all just Joshua being a Jewish coward again. That he would get over this. That he had to get over it. But as I stood inside of that packed temple and thought back on the red fury that had been swimming inside of Joshua's eyes I guess I knew then that he was going to do to himself what I had been too chicken to do to myself countless times before.
The Rabbi and the congregation followed me out of the temple and over to Joshua's backyard. Joshua had taken to slamming his head against an oak tree repeatedly, passionate red blood stains now sliding down the tree’s bark.
“Look Joshua!” I said pointing to the crowd of people behind me. “They said it’s alright! It’s alright for you to love me!”
“No it’s not! No it’s not!” He wailed rocking himself back and forth. “It’ll never be okay to God!” He pulled out the hunting gun from the tool shed his Dad had believed Joshua didn’t know the combination to. “It’ll never be okay.” He said grimly resolute.
The crowd began to shriek and run around in fear but I stayed where I was. I wasn’t scared. Even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself I knew that he loved me too much to ever think about hurting me. At least on purpose that is.
At that point the police showed up and I thought that it would be a good idea to call Joshua's parents and let them know that their son was about to kill himself because of their stupid rules but no one answered. They were at temple. The other temple two towns over that they walked half an hour to specifically because it said that Joshua and me were not okay.
Of course then the news showed up with their bright lights and cameras. The crowd now a safe distance away had come up with a catchy chant of “It gets better! It gets better!” and for a second the lies appeared to be working on Joshua. Instead of screaming in constant agony he had taken to silently weeping.
“Joshua…” I pushed out of my throat, determined to be the stronger one for once. “It’s going to be okay. God’s not mad. Look,” I said gesturing to the crowd of us trying hard to undo years of fundamentalist propaganda residing inside of Joshua with our very own. “It’s okay.”
Joshua stopped crying, stopped shaking and stared up at me with his powerful Neptune blue eyes and mouthed “I love you.” The snot and spit on his lips stretched out into thin long lines as he created the words. And then he did it. He killed himself.
The only person I had been brave enough to throw my love onto had been bought down by it.


- - -
André-Naquian Wheeler is a 19-year-old Texas native currently studying Journalism at New York University. His work has been featured on Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. You can find him on twitter @andre_daren or on tumblr @andrenaquian. He spends his free time reading, dancing to Beyonce, and chasing his dreams.

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Author: André-Naquian Wheeler

Contributor: Eve Francis

- -
“Do you ever feel like you’re a character in a book?” Will asks.

Greg looks up from the grass, using the back of his large palm to shield his eye from the sun. More people, tiny specs of color, move towards them on the field. Greg grabs the blanket from his backpack and lays it on the ground.

“Why on earth would you think that, Will?”

“I don’t know.” Will sticks his hands in his pockets. “It just feels like everything we do isn’t as personal as it used to be. It feels like we’re being watched half the time, like someone is looking over our every move and analyzing the good parts. It feels like we always have words to say, and the actions that happen are beyond our control. I don’t know…”

The people across the field move closer, holding more blankets and backpacks like Greg’s. Will knows he should be helping set up. Greg digs through the bag, discards an item, and then goes back for something else. Nothing seems to be what he’s after.

“Did that scene take a turn for the worst, Will? You never finished your thought. I don’t think these characters are well thought out or written.”

Greg grabs one of the folding lawn chairs and sets it up to the side.

Will looks at his shoes. Over across the field, other people set up their lawn chairs, too.

“Where’s Beckett?” Greg asks. His voice takes on a concerned tone, rather than his patronizing laugh from before. He blocks the sun with his arm and looks around. “Is Beckett coming?”

“I don’t know. He said he was,” Will says. Greg unfolds the other chair. He digs through his pack and retrieves his sunglasses. With a smile, he motions Will towards the empty seat.

“Maybe what I’m feeling is something religious,” Will says. “Maybe I’m talking about God right now and I’m just committing blasphemy for thinking outside the box.”

Will looks at the sky, and then to Greg. Greg hums.

Will shrugs. “I’m probably completely wrong.”

“Not completely. At least, give yourself some credit.”

A breeze catches both men, making them shiver. The sun in the sky disappears and fades into night. Sunrises and sunsets happen in the blink of an eye now. With the explosions happening more than ever, there’s nothing anyone can do to control the weather. Beckett said he’d help them find the answers to prevent the world from ending. More people with survival packs and lawn chairs join the two men in the field until it fills up. Beckett’s promises become as ubiquitous as myth.

Will shivers again.

“C’mon, Will. I don’t think you’re wrong. I just pictured us in a movie instead. Now,” Greg states, leaning back. “Let’s get ready.”

After a moment, Will follows in suit. The two men wait for the scene to unfold in front of them, murmurs of “Beckett” on everyone’s lips.


- - -
EVE FRANCIS has appeared in The Fieldstone Review, Hyacinth Noir, Plunge Magazine, and Gay Flash Fiction. She has a forthcoming sci-fi series on on JMS Books entitled Metal and Dust. She lives in Canada and can be found at http://evefrancis.wordpress.com/

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Author: Eve Francis

Contributor: ES Cooper

- -
She could hear him muttering under his breath. Complaining about her clothes on the floor, the cups she left out, and whatever else he could think of.
"If I drive you so crazy, why don't you just leave?" She suggested as she rolled over in the bed.
"It's that easy for you, then?" He asked; his voice clearly pained.
"I'm not saying it's easy, but all you ever do is piss and moan about what I do wrong. What are we doing then?"
"Those are just annoyances," he dismissed her. "I love you in spite of them."
"You sound miserable."
She felt the weight of him as he sat down on the bed with her. "I can't leave. Not yet."
"So, we just have an expiration date then? How romantic."
She fell asleep to the sound of him sighing and murmuring to himself.

#

She awoke to the sound of dishes slamming in the kitchen. It sounded like he was breaking every dish they owned.
"I will clean it eventually!" she yelled at him. She heard the sound of glass breaking. She rubbed her temples. He always had such a temper.
"Okay, break them then. I didn't want to clean them any-freaking-way." She yelled. Still he didn't reply just more slamming cabinets and clanking dishes. She sighed. It was getting to the point that she couldn't really remember the times when they didn't fight. She knew at one point they had been happy, but it seemed so distant now. Now they were just stuck at an impasse. And every day they resented each other a little more.
He didn't want to end it though, and she could admit to herself that she didn't really either. She couldn't remember much about what her life had been like before him. It was scary to think of her life without him, but as the slamming in the kitchen continued, she realized that it was becoming scary to think of her life with him.

#

The next time she woke up she could hear him crying. It was almost too quiet to hear, but she could hear it. She sat up to see his head in his hands and her picture in his lap.
"What is wrong?" she asked him.
"It's over. I know that it's over." He sobbed.
She wrapped her arms around him, "But I still love you."
"It's too hard."
"We can get through this. We can get through anything remember? It's just a phase. I'll do better." She found herself pleading with him.
"Not this," he whispered. He lowered his hands and touched her picture. She realized then that all of her stuff was gone. Nothing that belonged to her was anywhere to be found.
And then she saw boxes and suitcases by the door.
"You're kicking me out?!" she screamed at him.
"I'm so sorry."
She felt the tears welling up in her eyes, but she couldn't fight it anymore. Maybe it really was over. She stood up and walked to the door. She wasn't sure how long she stood in the doorway before she said, "I guess this is goodbye?"
When he didn't say anything she turned and walked out the door with nothing but the clothes on her back. She supposed if she was gonna start a life without him, she was going to start it from scratch. Her heart felt heavy, though.

#

He traced the outline of her face in the picture frame. He tore his eyes from the picture then and looked at the urn beside him. He wanted her to be free, but he hadn't been able to let her go until today.


- - -

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Author: ES Cooper

Contributor: Joe Russo

- -
My mother’s ring had two diamonds on the sides and in the middle a bigger diamond. She wore it everyday, even the day she died. She loved it, even more than her own kids. Supposedly.
I was running late to the lawyers office because Rebecca, the girl I wasn’t supposed to be with, wanted to go to breakfast. And because Shelly, the girl I was with, wanted to meet for lunch.
I walked into the lawyer’s office at 1:05, an hour and five minutes late. My sister was sitting, with her brown hair in a tight bun and wearing the tightest black dress I have ever seen, in front of the desk. I didn’t know why she was wearing it, the lawyer was over seventy and trying to impress him wouldn’t work.
“Glad you finally made it,” Joanna said, making that typical sneer face everyone hated.
I sneered back at her and took my seat. The worn leather cushion making a soft puff sound.
“As you know, your mother's will was very extensive and trying to get everyone together was very hard,” the lawyer said, removing papers out of his briefcase. He set them down and took out a pair of glasses. He cleared his throat.
“Half of the estate went to your father, who said he was going to bestow it to his children.”
“What about her ring?” Joanna asked, crossing her legs and putting her hands on the desk.
“Her diamond ring?” I asked.
“Yes her diamond ring, idiot. What else?” Joanna answered.
The lawyer shuffled through the papers. He cleared his throat again.
“It doesn’t say anything about rings in the will. Maybe…”
“Because I should get it. I am the oldest” Joanna said, looking at me.
“But I’m the only boy,” I said. The lawyer shuffled through the papers, stopping and looking every now and then. He brought one piece up to his face.
“And what are you going to do with it? Wear it?” Joanna asked.
“Oh, gee I don’t know maybe give it to my fiancé,” I said.
“Yeah when, and if, you even find one,” Joanna whispered back.
The lawyer looked at us bickering, like a tennis match, his head turning to the left and then to the right. “Ah yes. Here it is ‘my diamond engagement ring, given to me by my husband’-” he said and was soon interrupted.
“Where can I pick it up?” Joanna asked.
I looked at her. The lawyer looked at her, dropping his papers.
“The ring wasn’t given to you, Joanna,” the lawyer said. He looked over at me.
“See I told you she gave it to me,” I said.
The lawyer shook his head again.
“I’m afraid she hasn’t given it to you as well,” the lawyer said.
“Then who did she give it to?” Joanna asked, standing up. The office was quiet as everyone looked at each other. I just wanted the ring to give to Shelly, or whoever I was seeing this week. Joanna wanted it because it made her feel beautiful, which she needed because no one told her that.
“The ring was given to Ellie,” The lawyer finally said, breaking the silence.
Joanna stomped over, taking her place in her chair. I put my fingers against my head.
“Ellie…” Joanna finally whispered.
The lawyer shook his head up and down.
“Our ugly sister?” Joanna asked, starting to tear up.
“Yes, the ugly one idiot,” I said.
“Its okay. I’ll just ask her for it when she comes,” Joanna said, head sticking up in the air. She looked toward the door.
“Ellie already came by and picked it up this morning,” the lawyer said, picking up the papers. Joanna stared at him, her mouth wide.
“Your mother did leave you two something though,” The lawyer said.
We looked at him, our eyes wide like it was Christmas morning. Maybe she left me all her cars. Maybe she left Joanna all her clothes. We crossed our fingers.
“She gave you both three hundred and fifty dollars. And she signed it with ‘Love, mom’” the lawyer said, putting the papers back into his briefcase and taking out an envelope. He dashed out the money and we took it, looking at each other.
“I can’t believe she gave that ring to Ellie,” Joanna said. We left the office together and as we reached the elevator my cell phone beeped. I took it out.
Ellie sent me a picture of her driving, her right hand placed over her mouth, the ring shining in the sunlight. I laughed, silently, to myself and wondered what Rebecca was doing for dinner.


- - -
A current writing student. When I'm not writing, I'm blogging. When I'm not blogging, I'm watching Netflix. When I'm not watching Netflix, well... that's a problem.

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Author: Joe Russo

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Father Brennan had been pastor of St. Ignatius Church for 20 years, a long time for any one priest to remain at one parish. Usually the archbishop would transfer a pastor after he had served seven years. By that time, parishioners might have needed a fresh face and fresher homilies and the pastor, truth be told, might like to see a few new faces himself in the pews every Sunday morning.

That wasn't the case with Father Brennan, however. St. Ignatius was a parish in decline in terms of parishioners and he loved those who were still there, the ones who hadn't moved or passed away. There were only about 60 people left now, most of them widows and widowers as well as one nice elderly maiden who had never married, Margaret Mary Kelly, who studied early in life to become a nun but ultimately decided that life as a nun was not for her. She moved back home to care for her aging parents and did a fine job. Her father died at 84 and her mother at 81.

Margaret Mary herself now was 82. That's why Father Brennan was surprised to hear--word travels like a rabbit in a small parish--that Margaret Mary was thinking of marrying a widower older than she was, a man named Paddy Regan, 84, who lived in another parish a few miles away. She had never in her life shown any interest in marriage. Nor did she ever have to fight any men off. She was a fine woman not known for her comeliness as much as for her wit and her holiness.

Father Brennan didn't know what to think.

"Well," he said to himself over a cup of tea, "if Margaret Mary wants to get married, we'll do our best for her. I just hope the groom-to-be is in fine health. The two of them may not realize that in the Catholic Church a couple must be able to engage in sexual intercourse or the marriage would be null and void. I know they have all these medications now to give a man a boost but at 84 a man might need a rocket to get the job done."

Sure enough, two weeks later, Margaret Mary rang the rectory door bell and asked to see Father Brennan. He was about to eat lunch but asked her to come right into his small library where they could sit and talk.

"I'm planning on marrying Paddy Regan, Father, a widower one parish over," Margaret Mary began, "and I thought I should come see you to make the arrangements. At our age, Paddy and I would like to get married as soon as we can. Even though we have no serious health problems, God might call either one of us any day now. So we'd like to take our vows and, as they say, start living happily ever after, however long that might be."

Father Brennan didn't know how to begin to approach the potential problem of the couple's physical readiness to engage in the conjugal act, the Church's official term for sexual intercourse within a marriage. Even if Margaret Mary had brought Paddy Regan with her, it wouldn't have been any easier to approach the subject of Mr. Regan's potency or lack thereof. Father Brennan figured Margaret Mary might be marrying for companionship as might Mr. Regan. Every once in awhile, however, another Hugh Hefner pops up but that had happened only once before at St. Ignatius parish and the man, a legend in the neighborhood, died on his honeymoon, blissful, Father Brennan hoped, at age 87.

"Well, Margaret Mary," Father Brennan said, "you say you and Paddy are both in good health. Does he get out and about or sit around all day watching TV?"

Margaret Mary didn't know what to say except that Paddy Regan had struck her as being in fine shape, no matter the fact that he was into his eighties. After all, he had been a widower for three years so he must know what he wanted to do. Besides, he had been married twice before and both wives had died of natural causes. The first one had given him six children and the second one had given him another five. All of the children, well into adulthood now, were married, had good jobs and were a joy to Paddy. Besides, he didn't drink or smoke and could dance much younger women to the point of being too tired to continue. Light on his feet, Paddy was.

Father Brennan's reluctance in getting down to business had a lot to do with knowing Margaret Mary had once studied to be a nun and had spent the rest of her life taking care of her aging parents. She was a very spiritual woman. When possible, she used to bring her parents to daily Mass until they got too sick to come. After both had died, she herself attended daily Mass at 6:30 a.m. and had been doing that for at least 15 years. He doubted Margaret Mary knew much about sex, never mind the Church's requirement that any man seeking to marry had to be capable of having sexual intercourse. There would be no pass for Paddy Regan if he couldn't deliver the goods, as Father Brennan liked to think of it. God bless Paddy if he's up to it, Father thought, and then chastised himself for the unintended pun.

"Well, Margaret Mary, I know that you and Paddy won't be having a family but tell me are you sure he's looking for a wife and not a housekeeper?"

This comment did not sit too well with Margaret Mary, who rustled in her seat.

"Father, I told Paddy Regan there would be no messing around till I had a ring on my finger and we had said our vows. I told him I was a virgin and I would remain a virgin if we didn't get married. The man has had two wives, Father, and 11 children. I don't think he's looking for a housekeeper. He has a daughter who comes over twice a week to clean his house and she does a fine job of it. No, he's looking for a wife, I can tell you that. We have only kissed and hugged but he doesn't kiss me the way he might kiss his sister who, God bless her, is still going strong at 90, having been widowed twice herself. If I had a brother, I'd introduce him to her. A very nice woman."

Father Brennan decided he probably had to get to the point.

"Margaret Mary, your intended has had sex for most of his adult life and this will be something new for you. I imagine you have some idea what to expect if Paddy is still able to make love. Some men at his age aren't capable of doing that any more. You are probably aware of the physical aspects of marriage, I'm sure, and what will be expected of Paddy in the marital embrace." Marital embrace was another term the clergy used when discussing sexual intercourse.

Margaret Mary took a deep breath, uncrossed her legs and looked Father Brennan right in the eye.

"Father, all we have done is kiss and hug but on his birthday Paddy asked me to sit on his lap and give him a big kiss. Well, if he's not healthy enough to have sex, Father, I wish he had taken that crowbar out of his pocket. Scared the dickens out of me. I almost jumped off his lap. Can we get down to business now and set the date. Paddy and I aren't getting any younger."

Father Brennan coughed, looked at his desk calendar and said "How about four weeks from now? That will give us time to announce the bans of marriage in church and do everything right. And, of course, I'd like to meet Paddy Regan myself so I'll recognize him at the ceremony. I'd hate to make a mistake and marry you off to the best man."

Margaret Mary Kelly left the rectory that day happy to have the date for her wedding set.

That night, Father Brennan called another priest a few parishes over and told him about the upcoming wedding without mentioning any names.

They both had a bit of a chuckle and marveled at how hope springs eternal in the people of God, whatever their age.

Then the other priest, before hanging up, said he'd bet the flower girl will be at least 65.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Joe Dinnen

- -
It plunged deeper and deeper until it lightly settled among the uneven surface. It hit rock bottom. Leaving a trail of tiny bubbles to the surface. From the outside it looked graceful – the round object plummeting down through the semi-toxic liquid, distorted by the transparent encasing.

Whatever, Ron thought as he eagerly gulped the remaining gin from the glass.

His plump fingers reached down to grasp the green olive he so intently watched. One finger in particular, marked by drastic tan-line, drove Ron to polish off the three martinis he consumed that night. His late father’s voice echoed in his head…

“Martinis are like tits – three are too many, one isn’t enough…”

At this point, Ron had no desire to deal with, think about, look at, touch, caress…tits. Nope.

Drinking alone in the lobby of a Residence Inn is the last place Ron figured he’d be thinking about tits, let alone his late father’s words regarding them. Banal walls surrounding cheaply tufted chairs that could collapse under Ron’s potbelly at any moment.

Was this martini glass even that? Indeed glass? Nope – it was plastic.

Staring at his jarring tan-line along his ring finger, Ron’s phone buzzed. Slowly he diverted his gaze to the email on the screen. It was his lawyer – papers were signed and it was official.

“Shit man. Shit.” Ron muttered to himself through his gin and olive breath.

“So uncouth…” A sultry voice added.

“Excuse me?” Ron said, slowly looking up out of contained rage.

He was pleasantly surprised. While he found her words among the last that he could stand in his current state, he was met with the seductive eyes of another middle-age lone rider.

Trade in the martini glass for a champagne flute and the dick for a – well, she was a female – and Ron felt he may have found someone equally pathetic and in equally dire straits.

He needed a rebound.

“I said, ‘So uncouth.’ Did I stutter?” she replied.

At this point, the booze sloshed in Ron’s belly and memories and thoughts sloshed in Ron’s brain. Anyone who has experienced this sensation can only attest to the struggle.

“Name?” Ron managed to articulate.

“My my, sounds like someone has had one too many?” She said with a wink. “You can call me Cheryl.”

Ron thought long and hard about his next move. Aside from the fact that his motor skills were nearly depleted, Cheryl was his wife’s name. Well, now ex-wife’s name. To move forward or to call it a night, Ron struggled.

“Staying here…Cheryl?” Ron stammered with a snarl.

“Checked in tonight. I’m not familiar with the area…” Cheryl replied.

“Okay. I do. I’ll show you.” Ron slurred, stumbling to his feet.

“Well, it’s rather late tonight…don’t you think?”

Ron could barely decipher his credit card from his ID, let alone whether Cheryl was willing to be his rebound. What do I have to lose?

“You’re right.” He complied.

“I think…I’ll stay in.” Cheryl whispered, slowly walking by Ron and leaving her room key slyly in front of him.

As she sauntered into the distance of the hotel’s banal décor, Ron dug his hand into his pocket, almost frantically searching for his card to pay for the drinks he guzzled.

Standing up, he wiggled his pudgy hands into his pocket to grab his wallet. Slamming both his ID and credit card on the counter, he figured he’d cut his losses on which is which – he surely did not know.

And at that moment he realized that three cards now sat in front of him – his ID, his credit card and Cheryl’s room key. And at that moment he also realized that if his drunken perception could not tell between his ID and credit card – it certainly would not be able to distinguish a room key in the group.

Feeling defeated, Ron sat down on the cheaply tufted chair he had spent the entire night on. Wobbling beneath his mass, it collapsed to the ground.

Now, he had hit rock bottom.


- - -

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Author: Joe Dinnen

Contributor: Kathy Coman

- -
It’s been eight agonizing hours and now the moment has finally arrived. All I can think of is getting home to my plush bed that my body has been crying for since the moment my alarm went off at 6:30 in the morning. My hand begins to shake with excitement as my pointer finger reaches for the mouse. With no direction needed to its location, the mouse quickly moves towards the shut down button on my computer screen. I feel energy gaining with each passing second, and then suddenly, “Your computer is unable to shut down at the moment, please wait for all of the programs to close.”

What?

I scan the screen trying to zero in on the target I need to annihilate so that I may relieve myself from this toxic environment called work. But when I look around my brain is coming back, “Target not in sight.”

More eager than before, my hand forces the mouse back over to the shut down button. My leg begins to shake as my eyes quickly glance to the time, 4:02 P.M., I could’ve been down to the first floor by this time, well that’s if I didn’t have to stop at any of the floors in between. Even if I did, I could’ve at least been on the elevator.
My mind wanders back to the shut down button and I click it.

Deep breaths and high hopes.

“Your computer is unable to shut down at the moment, please wait for all of the programs to close.”

“Oh my gosh!” my mind screams with anger.

Focus is what I tell myself as I scan the screen for any open programs. Not trusting my eyes completely, I use my finger to point my eyes from the top of the screen to the bottom.

“I don’t get it. Why are you doing this to me?”

I take deep, calming breaths and close my eyes. Trying to find an inner peace to get me to the point where I can officially windup my workday. Ignoring the clock I begin to try again.

Negative.

And again.

Negative.

Calm breaths are leaving as 4:15 approaches, anger erupts inside of me, as I did not agree to work overtime. I should’ve gone with my first notion of calling off this morning due to sickness, which is a lie. I spent last night flipping through memories with an old college friend. What should have been a night of dinner turned into a night of wine and laughter leaving me with only a hour and half of sleep. Now my body is crying with pains of tiredness.

I should’ve been on Main Street about to board I-90 but no, I’m stuck with a computer who believes that a non-existent program is keeping it awake. Well I don’t have time to rock it to sleep any longer. It is time to rock my body to sleep; time for me to be snuggled up under my plush mattress, holding my favorite pillow and easing myself into a deep sleep, the one that I neglected last night.

Index finger pointed to the sky as I smile at with evil intent. I forcefully push what IT refers to as the “sacred button” and the sweetest sound plays on my eardrums.

The melodic chords of a computer fading to black.


- - -
I received a Bachelor’s of English from the University of Toledo in 2008. My poetry has appeared in: A&U Magazine, Carty’s Poetry Journal, Blinking Cursor Literary Magazine, and others.

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Author: Kathy Coman