Table of Contents

The First Account of Benny’s Diner

Watch and pray

Lost in translation…

An Account from Many Stories

Show and tell

Three Minutes

The secret

The blessing.

Home...

Just to see her…

The morning after:

Nightmare : The account of a the waitress named June

While We Were Yet…

What dreams will come

Eye hath not seen

The encounter

To the Five Wise Virgins

Copyright © 2016 by D.F. Lopez

The Accounts of Benny’s Diner and Other Stories

by D.F. Lopez

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN 9781498483872

All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of the publisher.

Scripture quotations taken from the New King James Version (NKJV). Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

www.xulonpress.com

The accounts of Benny’s Diner are stories that revolve around a central theme: the endtime era. Most stories branch off a small diner in New York. Others have little to no connection, except for the main purpose of revealing that everything happens for a purpose, and for those who love God, they happen for good. Revelations and the end times are in the Bible and many people (including this author) carry beliefs that agree with most others who read about these times that we don’t understand much of it. But the amazing thing about these things to be is that God our Heavenly Father knows all and is completely in control of these times. These stories should be a comfort, knowing that even though we don’t have all the answers, He does. Lastly, conversation flows freely in real life, and as author I found free flowing course of conversation should sound... Free flowing... Enjoy the course of conversation.

The First Account of Benny’s Diner

Introduction: This story as of yet never happened. But sometimes things happen and people fall in love. It’s just a story and I would like it to be one that you read for interest, not for exposition. Believers are joined to nonbelievers all the time. After all, Hosea (in the Bible) married a prostitute because he was asked to by God. Other than any other love story the details remain hazy. Little is known of their courtship. But can you imagine how God asked Hosea? The spouse is said to be sanctified by the believer, but if asked to leave then it is all right for them to leave. To me this account I wrote is unscriptural. I mean, how could God possibly do this sort of thing? Writing this has left me with questions.

His eyes told the story. Volumes in every shift of his pupils. Expectant yet cautious. Loving but careful. I watched those eyes for two weeks in the diner before I made my move. He bit into his Bible every morning with the sun’s rays on his shoulder like a soft yellow blanket that covered him. I was the coffee girl and between orders I would glance at him out of the corner of my eyes and see him still turned in to his New King James’. He was ready to order. I was going to make him ready. I slowly made my way to his booth where he sat, stiff as a board and deeply planted in another realm of thinking. My fingernails slid against the Formica making my presence known. His eyes, perceiving yet still distant, refocused on my black Benny’s Diner writing pad. He stuttered a hello and I knew I had got his attention.

“Lemme guess,” I smiled, “Iced vanilla latte… decaf right?” The sun had shifted from his shoulder to the table and had begun to soften his fingers. But he played with the corners of his Bible like a little drummer boy with two nervous sticks.

“Hey June.” He withdrew from his planet gazing and centered in on me. Placing a hand atop his Bible, the conversation began, “Same as last, you know me.”

No, but I’d like to though, I thought smilingly. “How about a shift in persuasions…”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” His eyes went blank and his mouth refused to close.

“I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

“Never mind.”

“June, clearly you had something brilliant to say. Enlighten me.”

I placed a hand in my hair and pulled out my pen. There went my confidence. “Shift in persuasions. I thought you might like me to persuade you on other drinks on our menu.” My pen went toward the menu behind me and accidentally was released somewhere between where I was and the nearby bar and stools.

It landed safely away from us on the black and white square tiles and lay spinning on its side.

“Oh,” was all I could say. Benny looked up from behind his grill and gave me a glare to get back to work. His greasy apron turned him back into his entree of delights and he flipped a pair of eggs onto a plate.

“Orange juice,” he smiled. Promising, I thought. And he confirmed it by getting up slowly and retrieving my pen. “Orange juice would be nice.” He pulled a smile out of his infinite smile box (they were always authentic, that’s why I trusted him) and gave back my pen. Our hands brushed and his eyes gave out (for a moment) a look of pure attraction. But he hid it somewhere where no man can hide and sat back down to his Bible, this time more stiff and less relaxed.

This was how we truly met. And thinking about it now, it’s one of my fondest of memories…

The next two months were heaven. Everyday, I arranged something to say to find his interest. I looked back at it and it was like dreaming.

“June, you’re smiling… What’s on your mind?”

“I get off at three.” I wasn’t used to being the aggressive one, but he was so shy!

“Oh,” he said, and pens flying blanked me out for a spell. I gave into a giggle and he relaxed a bit.

“I don’t know June,” he retracted into his loving but careful look. “It’s just that…”

“You afraid you might get hit by lightning? I’m just asking for coffee, come on!”

“June, I’d like to, really I would, but I, I can’t…”

His eyes said a different story, but I just lowered my head and died inside.

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night after having a dream about someone you know and yet for the sake of it all you don’t know what the dream was about? Well that was what I felt like when I woke up and could remember his name. Jose. Heh: But the funny thing was,I never knew his name.

I never had the courage to ask him. I wanted to. But something in me resisted. I’d fight to at times, but I found it easier to serve him his orange juice (he had decided to have orange juice now) and walk away.

Now I knew his name. However, the funny thing was I never asked. It wasn’t much to go by, but whenever I looked into his face I would see my father. And that was a good sign. My father was a man of solitude yet he believed. I wanted to. But I never knew that side of him. God knows I always wanted to and deep down inside I thought about it. But something always told me that in life our decisions were all there ever was.

Until I met Jose.

“So you see, Christ can’t come back until the Bride, err His people are white or pure like snow. White like driven snow.” He talked to me on his passion every day. I only listened. He sounded so much like my father, but still I had my own convictions.

“What do you mean, Bride? I dunno if I follow you.” I wanted to laugh inside but I kept my composure. It’s not every day that you hear someone talk about the end of the world. I watched the conviction in his eyes and I could tell he was for real. I wanted to know more. So I asked him. I asked him out.

I slid my hand over to his gently, lovingly, just to let him know. A cold shudder went through him, but just before it did his eyes went down and I thought I saw something. But that was my way. I wasn’t used to being manhandled, I just wanted attention. He performed a sleight of hand and his Bible appeared.

I got the picture. I slid back a little and let him talk. The funny thing was he said nothing. Maybe it was his honesty or his trust but that’s what I remember more than his words or his preachy (although he always preached) sermons that always seemed to keep my interest.

I changed subjects. “So, when is this whatchamacallit capture?”

“Oh, you mean rapture.” Then he turned on me. “Why? Are you interested?”

Sort of, but not really. “Yeah… I mean, I really would hate to see you leave, that’s all.”

“They say it’s soon,” he smiled, clutched his Bible and went on. “I don’t know when, but really you want to know what I think?”

I decided to test him. “I don’t know why, but I don’t think it’s time…”

His interest picked up and I wanted to know what he was thinking. “Don’t ask me how I know, but you really want to know what makes me tick?”

That shocked me, because at that moment I was thinking about clocks. So I answered him, “What do you mean? I knew you were a Christian by the way you walked. I followed you since the first time I saw you in here. How did you know I was thinking about clocks?”

“Clocks, what are you talking about clocks? I asked you what makes me tick.”

“How did you know I was thinking about clocks?”

“I thought…”

And then I just stood there amazed. But at that moment, looking back now I realized he always knew.

“I was thinking about clocks because my shift will be starting soon.” And I added, “Thank you for the talk, but it’s best if I get ready.”

He wasn’t interested. I felt ashamed inside but I kept it to myself. I decided to lock his words deep in the corners of my heart. Just in case...

But in case never came. And suddenly the voice of a death angel pulled me from my thoughts and I found myself still staring at the strap that held down my arms.

He fell in love with me two years later after I had stopped liking him and began to enjoy his company.

But he couldn’t commit.

I could see it in his eyes, but in his words he always kept to his side of the line. And the line was blurring.

The sun followed us in its patient gaze beyond the window of Benny’s little diner just off the corner of 4th and Kennedy. Grits and eggs crackled on the plate in my hand as I received my, as always, loving welcome to Jose’s booth. They sat alongside four strips of overcooked bacon and a dainty little slice of bread. I was in a chipper mood. So, I smiled widely and set the plate beside his second glass of orange juice.

“Still waiting?” I asked, not unkindly but more or less willing to see his eyes.

“As always,” he said. Conviction still, after two years…

“You’ve been waiting for how many years?”

“I don’t look back. All I know is that it could be any moment or a lifetime away.” He sipped his orange juice and the smell of the grits nauseated me. I had been working here too long. It was time for a subject change.

“Knowledge is a temporal thing,” I pondered.

“Really? I thought knowledge was power,” he went on, shifting through his eggs with his fork but never taking his gaze from mine. “I’m interested.”

“I mean knowledge passes away,” I confessed. “You fill your head with it and slowly lose it through time.”

“That’s entirely not true. The world is founded on knowledge.” His eyes stayed on me. Not uncomfortable, but still controlled.

“I’m interested.”

“The world is framed on wisdom. That’s what the Bible says.”

“What if the Bible isn’t true?” I couldn’t help it. There was a pause and the sound of the tea kettle in the back sounded like a warning. But it was too late.

“What do you believe?” He looked to me like an innocent child who had just been hurt. I looked out the window to the bank across the street beyond the cars parked and the shade that covered them.

“I want to… that’s all you need to know.” With that, I felt uneasy and dry inside. I wanted what he had. I almost hated his honesty, but I kept listening.

“All you have to do is ask.”

“I do every day.”

“What do you hear?”

The tea kettle died down and the smell of love was in the air. I feel a yes in your heart, “But it’s always a no.”

“I see birds all around you and stars, June. They’re everywhere. But I see you in a shadow that you can’t find a way out of. Don’t you want to come out?” Steam was boiling in me. His words kept stilling my heart, but He only spoke life. He was so positive. I wanted Jesus to come back because he deserved to be seen.

“I have my days when I don’t think about the past.” I wanted to say yes to his call to life but the shadows in my mind corrupted my soul. I kept looking away into the bank at the people and there was a stirring in me. Ask him out.

“Whatever you’re thinking June, the Lord is telling me that I can’t commit,” he said quietly.

No emotion. Was his God a hateful God?

“I thought God never rejected anyone.” It wasn’t spite.

“June,” he said and scrunched up a napkin to give to me. “For your eyes.”

“Thank you.”

The funny thing was I had to work with my broken heart. He could leave at any time and go back to his little job he had. But I needed grace. So, I strengthened myself, picked up my composure and carried on.

But later he would tell me that was when he saw me for more than a soul to be saved. I was his cost. And joyfully I felt the brown leather strap slide over my legs. I wasn’t in the dark anymore. Looking back I could see His mercy. I was so grateful he let me cry in front of him. I looked at the clock before me. And the past opened up like a much-wanted dream.

Today was the first day that I listened intently to his words. It was an overcast day on 4th and Kennedy, but the sun was shining all around.

“These are tears of joy,” he said. “I finally see that cloud dispersing. But there’s something else.”

He had finally committed to my day off in the diner and I felt like a child as he pulled out my sad story.

“I was abused,” I said. “He hit me for two years before I left him.” I muffled my words with a Benny’s Diner napkin and faded in and out. He never took his eyes off me as I stared intently into the white cloth, finding my train of thought gliding around its crumpled edges. Mascara stained the napkin like wet blots of black paint. He listened as I went on.

“What can make a man do that Jose? What drives a man like that? Can ya tell me that? I mean, if it’s God I can’t help it… He hit me Jose! He hit me and hit me and hit me.” And then came the truth. “And I took it.”

There was a pause. I looked sincerely into his eyes and caught something. It was a sparkle.

“He’s not the only man,” he stated. I felt around in his words.

“What? Whaddaya mean Jose?” I watched him, sullen and hopeless.

“It just looks like you see him as the only man out there,” he was patient, drawing a sigh of breath and relaxing into his next statement. “God’s telling me it’s okay.”

“Okay to be hit? Jose, I don’t follow you. You’re not making sense,” I said politely. But his eyes turned away from mine and outside I felt a stir of life. People passing by: Cars…A cardinal against the sill…Life.

“I don’t get it,” he fumbled.

Get what? I watched him suspiciously and a tear slipped from the corner of his big blues. The motion of the diner had never stopped but yet something pulled me from his attention and I looked over to see Benny half-interested, half not. He had pulled two cups of coffee from his magic bag and was walking over to us. Silently he placed them down on the Formica and stole away.

“June,” Jose placed a hand over mine and the napkin, “I…”

He never finished his statement. A silence came over him followed by a perplexed look; an inward look.

And he held me.

The clock was ticking. And I stared it down. The white room where I lay strapped down grew distant. I wasn’t worried. Jose and Him danced in my mind. I wanted it the other around, but Jose was the one who started it. Before them both, I lived a hellish life. My grew gown wrapped me in cold silence. The nurse had left me and yet I wasn’t alone. Focus June. Be still and know. That’s what Jose had once said. Soon I would be with him. That made me smile and I played with my engagement ring with my thumb, twirling it without end. He had said yes... Yes!

A rose lay beside him today at the diner: A brilliantly red rose that captured the sun in its folds. Above him the white fan had slowly turned the wind, touching the green leaves and fluttering them on their side.

“Jose…” I had said.

“Yes? I didn’t know. I mean, it’s just been so long for me. And when He said it was okay…” he had something on his mind.

“Been so long for what?” I knew I just wanted him to say it.

Carefully he pushed the rose to me. Its fold still enveloped the sun and my heart leapt! I picked up the rose and inhaled.

“It’s been so long for me…” he had said.

“Me too.,” The reds had a life of their own.

“I still don’t get it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with love, Jose.” The rose was beautiful.

“I mean after all these years of hearing Him say no.” His eyes I could not see. Yet I knew this man. He was looking down into his hands the same way he did when he couldn’t speak. It was those times when he had looked deep into my heart and I could not find him wrong. He always knew what to say: His visions, his words, heh, his eyes. They always told the truth. But his love—that’s what had always held me.

“June,” he went on, “God said it was okay to love you!”

“I know. I mean, I always knew inside what you wanted but you’re such a prude!” That was all I could come up with and I thought for a moment Benny was laughing. I didn’t care. I had gotten my rose. It had taken three years for him to make a move and I had smiled the whole way through.

I wanted to light up then and there just to ease the tension, but instead remarkably I found myself telling him, “I love you too…”

“June,” he smiled, “what do I have to do to get a date with you?”

“Don’t ya know?” I held the rose with both hands. “We have been dating for two years!”

“But we’ve never left this diner!”

“Yes we have,” I was exploding inside, “Dozens of times.”

“I still don’t get it June” he halted.

“Get what?” I was curious. “The meaning of life? Easy: second star on the left, straight on till morning… That’s how you get there.”

“This isn’t scriptural,” he was looking at his hands again.

“But is it biblical?” I asked. I had heard all his stories. I just thought… “What do you believe Jose?”

“I believe that God made no errors when he made the Bible,” he said.

“So you’re saying we can’t be?” cornered him. I wanted truth now. Let’s see if he could find an answer to this. If not, then all he ever told me was a lie. If he answered this wrong I promised I would never look at his Jesus again.

Instead he held my hands. The rose turned on its side and he spoke softly, “But He said it was okay…”

Something inside me stirred. Was He real?

I should have listened to that something inside of me. I wouldn’t be looking at a stainless steel door with a small porthole for a window. But then again, I would not have touched thousands for Him. Even trade… The nurse had returned clothed in white and I stared at the unsightly mark on her forehead. She smiled as if she had won a prize and carefully I released my heart to God. Slowly the ticking down of the clock melted into a fusion of love and grace. I was to die soon.

Pockets of sun streamed down through the thousands of bright orange leaves where we found rest after a long walk. Jose drew close. A small breeze colored our afternoon with scents of the pond that made Fairview Park so famous.

“Blessed, not famous,” Jose corrected. His arms had found their ways around me. I sat in vivid contentment, watching the colors of the clouds ricochet off the pond’s surface.

“Oh I don’t wanna hear it,” I smirked.

He shifted, “I’m just saying-”

I realigned, “You and God! I love you, but separate from Him. I’m here.”

“Separate? That’s impossible. We share the same fate, as you would say.” He wiggled his legs a bit.

“Not forever,” I remarked. “Just for now…”

“I can’t. It’s part of the deal. You get me then you get Him,” he triumphed. I leaned into his embrace and countered.

“We’re opposites.”

“I know…”

“You just give me His love and we’ll call it even,” I taunted.

“I’ll show you His love,” he said. “See those clouds in the water?”

“Enlighten me.”

“That’s His way of painting a picture just for you,” he said. Expression…

Jose, what would I do without you?

“Monet.” My hands went out as if with an invisible paintbrush. “He saw it too.”

“Monet?”

“A very famous nobody,” I started. “Excuse me, blessed nobody. He even painted with bad eyes.”

“His curse was his gift,” he added.

“Marry me.” I had closed my eyes. He said nothing. I refused to turn., “That was a yes, right?”

“June,” he said. I turned to him. “June, that’s my job.”

The rest of the day we spent looking at the pond and watching the clouds drift lazily into a setting sun. Boldly the reds struggled against the violets as they blurred into a coming darkness.

And we sat.

I awoke to the sound of the nurse with the needle in her hand. She motioned to me the time by looking over her back to the clock, finding what she needed and turning back around to notice me smiling. But it was too late. I whispered,“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in the paths of Righteousness for His names sake…” This was my prayer as she came closer.

“They deserted me.” Jose was at his booth, head still and lost in thought.

“What are you talking about honey?” I went sullen.

“They don’t agree,” he said, “None of them believe that… You and I, they just can’t see.” His hands rushed to his head.

“Your friends will see it in time.” I wanted to believe it too.

“But they don’t see what I see.”

“A beautiful woman…?” I asked lovingly.

“A loving one,” he answered.

I risked it. “What is it? I’m no good for you?”

“It just doesn’t make sense…”

“No, honey, answer me. Am I no good?”

“…”

Another tear; this time one of mine. I took off the engagement ring and placed it silently onto a crack in the Formica table.

…And walked away.

I wanted to run. This man had come so close to me.

At home I tore off my apron, washed my hands and then turned on the TV. I needed to clean up this mess. I turned to my plants. Great, I could have pawned that ring. Darkness persuaded me. Too dark… Slowly I opened my flower patched curtains (the one my mother swore would ward off would-be suitors) and stared into the street below.

I looked down in disbelief. What had I done? “Checkmate.” In my defeat I had risen up. Checkmate. That’s it… Checkmate.

It had been hidden in my closet for centuries: Down between the unused bedspreads and my small collection of Italian postcards. I looked back in my mind as I pulled out the old worn-out Gideon’s Bible. My father had found it in a gallery of hotel rooms during one of his leaves of absence. It had brought me luck. Slowly I killed the interior light and sat under the light of my small lamp.

“Checkmate,” I said again. “I got you now.”

My religion was as follows. I had none. But if I could beat him at his own game I could save him the delight of leaving me. I turned slowly toward the middle of the Bible and came across Psalms.

I looked at it. “Too much sorrow.”

I had found Job. “I heard about you. Won’t work…”

I decided to start at the beginning, crumpling the pages as I turned. “In the beginning… Yadda, yadda, yadda… Adam falls.”

The TV played softly, attracting my attention to scenes from divorce court. Not gonna happen, I thought. Politely I looked up. My room was a mess. Thank God Jose never came up here. Face it June, you’re a slob. Clothes littered my bedroom floor like an old dirty chicken coop. A tear slid down my cheek again. He’ll never marry me. Exodus… Moses. My father knew him too. Deuteronomy… Judges… Okay June, keep looking. The pages turned and turned. Nothing.

An hour later, maybe two. The light from my outdoor balcony was fading into midnight blue. “Seek and ye shall find…” I smiled hauntingly.

Isaiah… Prophet… Interesting… But not now; My toes curled up against an old T-shirt I had found unworthy of washing. Dirty, but still clean. I needed a bath: hot one to clear my mind. What is it that You have to make it so difficult? That was a slip. God had entered my dictionary of words. Slowly I retracted. That had to be a slip…

I got up and turned on the hot water and closed the bathroom door. He was winning. I was a far third, but gaining…

Checkmate, I thought back. Heh. The solid white room was appealing to me. It reminded me of him so much and what he said about the Bride. How I wanted to believe like him. It just wasn’t for me then. The leather straps prevented me from finding a way to scratch an urgent itch on my right thigh. Carefully I rubbed my legs together and felt instant relief. The gown they had given me felt heavy. I thumbed my ring. Soon and very soon… I hummed softly as I drifted back to yesterday...

“Okay Slim, whattalit be?” not cold but distant.

Jose looked shocked. “I thought it was your day off…”

“Overtime,” I clinched. Hide it June, not yet…

“Coffee…”

“Black?” small undertone, nothing noticeable.

“Of course not,” he noticed. “I prefer iced.”

“Okay,” I scribbled cold on my pad and laughed aloud.

“What’s so funny?” he asked angrily.

“You say iced and I’m writing cold: Any questions?” Too cold. Steady June, he’s patient, but not that patient.

“Yeah,” he said. Okay, too patient. He’s winning. Now June, time to work your magic.

I walked away to get his iced coffee. Benny handed me a smile. I had told Benny what I was about to do and a small smile crested his lips as he handed me the iced coffee. You keep dieting big boy and you can find somebody, I wanted to say, but only returned his smile.

I slipped the coffee to Jose and stood there for a moment.

“You missed something,” I said.

“…”

I moved beside him to his King James and flipped to the Book of Hosea. “Your namesake, Jose. I found this at 2:30 this morning.” Checkmate. I win.

“I know the scripture.” He was impossible!

“He married a prostitute Jose.”

“He did.”

“…”

“…”

“I dunno much about Him but what I read seems to fall under the lines of God said it was okay.” I had a good memory.

He looked up. So did he. “The Bible speaks of not being yoked to unbelievers…”

“You’re impossible!”

“I made a choice June. My own. I know the consequences. And I still don’t get it. My friends think I’m crazy. You never stayed around to see what I felt, you just stormed out of here like…”

“Like God knows what?” I finished.

“I never judged you June,” he said.

Checkmate. Now I can’t hate him.

“They did,” he finished.

And I fell in love with him again. Slowly he pulled out my ring and placed it onto my finger…

The last time I saw him I was rolling up my sleeves that night back on the 18th of December. I found him getting tired of orange juice and shifted him onto a nice warm mocha.

“I never had it, honey,” he had said.

“Some things you just have to try,” I said, scribbling into my pad. I was going to surprise him.

“That goes for you too,” he said.

I frowned a little but turned., “I know what you mean, and you’re getting to me…” But not yet… I found Benny behind the counter deep in a coma working on my Surprise for Jose. His gold cross stood out today. You must be everywhere, I thought. Not yet, I had said softly to myself. Benny turned to me with the steak and eggs. Jose loved steaks.

“Thanks Benny,” I smiled. I turned around to see Jose into His Word, as he called it, and forgot something: steak sauce. Before Jose could see, I wrapped back around the corner and tried to catch Benny off-guard.

But Benny was gone. The grill still crackled with hot grease and salts. But Benny was nowhere to be seen.

Bathroom break, I thought. I found the steak sauce and turned to give a smile to Jose, but found an empty booth.

“Jose?” My smile had faded. Aside from the emptiness of the diner, an old lady looked up from her milk and hash browns.

“Jose?”

I went teary on that memory.

“Tell me,” the nurse said, “is it him?” She pointed to my ring finger.

I nodded. My Jose…

“I wanted to believe,” she went on, “but…”

I looked again through my tears at the mark on her forehead.

“I’ll die before I take it,” I said gracefully.

“Well.” She looked at the clock 11:59 p.m. Slowly the needle broke my pores and a wave of relief found me.

“I’ll see Him,” I said as I drifted off.

Oh what dreams may come…

Watch and pray

Introduction: The accuracy of prophecy combined with the error of people can be a dangerous concoction… I remember the way my Southern Baptist mentor taught me to look to the heavens in wonder every day for Jesus’ return. It seems our curiosity drives us wild as God patiently turns the pages of time. We are asked to watch and pray.

Little Simple Hills was a town just outside of New York. Its sign proudly boasted a population of 238, composed of fifty-eight families that raised their children in the eyes of the Lord and under each other’s supervision. Simple Hills was beautiful. But Simple Hills carried a burden.

The bell tolled over the pastures of Simple Hills community. It rang far and wide, drawing its denizens into the Crusoe Church, a family of believers, centrally black. Above, its sky was breathtaking. It made one feel small. It was like heaven had stopped in its eternity just long enough to scrawl a passing moment into the skies below. Some children did handstands on the green pastures and attempted to fall into its inviting sea of blue sky. Sunday was the day of rest. And in Simple Hills its people obeyed.

Still, people gathered, walking some distances, while others drove the gravel road leaving a dust trail of chalky whiteness. Since the wildflowers were in bloom the daughters and their grandmothers would run and pick the choicest of God’s creation. They would return with bouquets for mothers to enjoy.

Each made woman left a legacy of make-up and used an eternity to put it on. The gentlemen were the waiters, impatient and hungry for the afternoon’s game. Everything had its place and this town was a steel trap already set, yet anxious to bite.

“Join me please, in the reading from the text of Romans, its sixth chapter. If you have found it say amen,” said the Reverend Adakimbo. Crusoe Church was packed with standing room only.

Several people stood, some said amen and others lightly fanned their faces in agreement. It was hot. Reverend Adakimbo, a black preacher, adjusted his reading glasses, took a step back to focus on his notes and placed both hands calmly against the sides of his pulpit. It was a deep mahogany stain, his pulpit, the one he had built himself, fashioned over weeks, until he was finally satisfied. From where he was, he looked down toward a captive audience while standing in front of a large brass and wooden cross from the arms of which a purple sash flowed freely.

The pulpit sat upon a crimson carpet which sat upon an elevated stage. The walls were white with beautiful windows that could draw the beauty of the pasture in all its luscious greenness into the imagination of its onlookers. And at night the doors to the church would be laid open and people would kneel there and some would cry and some would talk and some would wonder aloud. Tears were born there. Maybe this was where it started, in the heart of someone in pain about the little town with a grave sin that lurked just below the surface.

The congregation, mostly African, sparkled in interest. Outside a bright and sunny day welcomed the church, which sat in a field of wildflowers and birds. The family of believers always enjoyed how the following week seemed blessed after coming to Crusoe Church. Someone yawned lightly and the black preacher gave a stern eye that snapped everyone in line.

All over the small church the sounds of pages turning whispered as the people sat on the hard wooden pews. Some even shifted, having sat for some time now after choir worship and tithing and now the sermon. The organ player passionately danced a tune around the preacher’s words.

It was a small flock and the facility, old yet refurbished after generations of folk, was the nexus of Simple Hills, the name of the small town that housed nearly fifty-eigth families. The voice of the preacher, because of the way the church was built, could speak low and be heard. The flock looked down, burying their thoughts in search for the scriptures.

The preacher resettled his notes and lightly leaned over the pulpit. He said, “Today’s message, the cost of your soul.”

The congregation ignited. The preacher, wild eyed and stern, began to give a list of points and analogies. He told stories and he prayed. He gripped the sides of the podium and shouted, jumping, and then at times wiping his forehead with a handkerchief he kept beside a bottle of water beneath a hidden shelf below his Bible. People fanned themselves and stood up, hollered and hooped.

Such messages were well received in Simple Hills. After service, however, the kids would sometimes pretend to be Reverend Adakimbo quoting his Bible verses and hooping and shouting. Hellfire and brimstone rained down every Sunday. Leaving Sunday’s sermon, the women were like walking flowers, adorned in colorful dresses and matching hats and shoes with heels that tapped the sidewalk. They walked proudly, they did, leaning on their men’s arms and smiling.

It happened that two older ladies walked the graveled parking lot to find their cars. They stepped boldly, heads held high, walking with an air of confidence. They were without men and had large purses, purses that matched their large dresses and dresses that matched their high heels.

“Glory!” one would say and the other would agree, and their smiles would grow large and bright.

“Preach got ‘em good today too!” the taller one stepped lively, as beautiful as fresh flowers, and made sure her heels clicked around the cracks and borders in the concrete walkway. The one listening to her bubbled in joy, peering from large glass bottled spectacles.

“Was that little Johnny who raised his hand for Jesus?” the one with the glasses asked.

“No, he’s a just a yawnin’,” she said, “Thought so at first too!”

“Chil’ his heart is a needin’ Jesus… You know what he did las’ Thursday?” Her response chilled a little as she readjusted her specs, sighed heavily and then waited for a response.

“No, wha’?”

“That litt’ heathen tore sometin’ awful out my garden o’ flowers!” From zero to evil in three seconds, the woman’s glasses might have fogged up in her anger.

“Folk’ say his papa done gone and left…” With this, the women’s words softened as the little boy Johnny appeared in view.

Smiles erupted from the women as they passed by. Johnny’s aunty eyed the two and gave a considerably fake smile on purpose. And only when Johnny’s auntie’s heels had softly passed did the two women bravely gossip.

“Heathen,” one said. The other gruffly sighed.

“Ooh chil’, you right baby,” the other said.

Little Johnny was a curious one: rascal sometimes, but over all a boy, and boys would be boys. Aunty told him to keep his questions to himself. People just wouldn’t get it, she often told Johnny, who when told this would simply ask why until she smiled and said nothing, never mind. He never ceased to amaze his aunty. One day she’d find him feeding Stomach Aid to the pigeons in Mayde Creek Park. The next, Johnny would be reciting Pastor Adakimbo’s scriptural contexts. The more important things, Johnny told his aunty, were held in his little black journal that he had bought from the corner drug store for less than a dollar.

“Aunty?” asked little Johnny on the way from church. His aunty listened.

“Yes baby?” his aunty always stopped to listen to him. Both hands at two and ten rocked slightly side to side on the steering wheel, the little diamonds in her rings reflecting light onto the dashboard. She stole a look at Johnny as she slowed to stop at the red light on the corner of Mangum and Price.

“Is Jesus mad at us?” asked little Johnny. Aunty, amused, turned her right signal switch on and turned.

“Why no baby, you know I told you what the Bible say,” she said. From the shade of the large oaks, collages of light entered the car and departed just as quick.

Johnny adjusted his seatbelt, placing it behind his back so he could breathe easier. “It says, He will never leave us or forsake us… Hebrews, chapter something, verse something else,” Little Johnny recited.

“That’s right, chil’” Aunty smiled. Johnny listened. He went to speak, then hesitated to stare out the window some more and then he rested his forearm over the door and halfway through the open window.

“But didn’t He leave the twelve disciples?” Little Johnny asked.

“Johnny, the Bible says it, so jus’ believes it so.” Aunty had no answer to a child’s intellect sometimes. So she waited for his response as always for him to answer himself. And he did.

“I’m gonna ask Him Aunty… I’m gonna ask Him,” said Johnny. He balled up his fists and stared out the open window.

That was when the first billboard was seen.

“Oh look baby,” Aunty said.

The sign read:

Are you ready? It’s coming…

“What is it Aunty?” Little Johnny asked. Aunty ducked her head to see the billboard from under the top of the windshield.

She said, “Dunno, honey…” Aunty thought about it, smiled and then lied, “Dunno.”

The Simple Hills community had separate thoughts about the black and white sign that towered forty feet in the air above the field just off of Mr. Chile’s property. It had been a good several years at least since anyone advertised on it and Mr. Chile said little.

For the first two or three weeks the sign had captivated the little town. People who talked or gossiped never mentioned the sign except in jest. The flock of Crusoe Church, the only church in Simple Hills, was losing its youth to the enticements of larger cities. The little preacher knew this, and though his heart was in the right place, his conscience for his next decision was weighted.

Next Sunday Mr. Peters, the ultimate fear of all children on his block, found a seat in the rear of the church just behind Ms. Rene, the town gossip. And not even she said anything. He shook the pastor’s hand and even grinned, leaving the church with the little boys and girls whispering, full of giggles. But at home he hadn’t changed, unloading often on those rascals who would trespass on his lawn.

Those in passing the sign either smiled or glanced, but not much. Simple Hills’ folk knew each other, and though everyone had some form of knowledge of one another it still was Simple Hills and Simple Hills loved its own.

The preacher found it a good sermon- too good, in fact, for just one sermon, but requiring a series.

“Today’s sermon is called are you ready?” said the preacher. The organ player played as the preacher hooped. Already his forehead was damp from sweat. Excited, his flock joined in celebration.

“Are you ready for those clouds to unfold?” he asked. They nodded and shouted amens and praise the Lords and some even began to mumble in another language. The preacher watched, pausing for effect, and said, “I don’t think you heard me…”

He waited...

Again, the organ player; again, the flock; again, the preacher, “Are you ready for the sun’ to hide?” He was revving them up. Ol’ lady Winston, who usually spat vinegar, stood up, arthritis and all, and at the tender age of ninety-two, leaned on the front pew and cried, “Holy is da Lord!” Her daughter Mildred jumped up behind her and shouted something loud but unintelligible.

“Are you ready for the moon to shed blood?” he said. His words went through the crowd like electricity. But he knew their capabilities so he shouted, “Louder.” And they reciprocated back as loud.

“Have we not seen the wars and rumors of the wars?” he said. About this time little April, a two-year-old tike, broke into a misery of tears and her mother slid her from her lap into the pew and bribed her with a cracker. Immediately she was appeased, and decided to chew on the wooden pew.

“How about for the great falling away?”

The preacher’s words made Mr. Tidwell jump up raise his fist and say, “Hallelujah!”

“The Bible speaks about two shall be in a field,” he said.

“And one will look up.”

Someone said, “And one will be left!”

“And behold,” the preacher said, “One will be left.”

“And one will be missing.”

“That one will be caught up!” he said.

It went like this for a few weeks until another sign appeared.

It’s late but on time…

Around that time word was that Mr. Rossyln had quit his job. He posted a rocking chair facing east on his back porch where he would just sit. Mama Rossyln sometimes would watch him from the kitchen window, cook some stir fry and place it by the little coffee table next to her swing. She was a larger woman with bow legs and a wobble, but a toothless grin and a joyful soul. Mr. Rossyln used to be deacon at Crusoe. He used to get a quick smoke before service, now he just stared blankly out toward the clouds. He had given up smoking. He ordered the patch, popped two on his lower back and leaned into a rock.

“Had ta end sometime,” he said. Mr. Rossyln waited until twilight, sipped some chamomile tea and then fell asleep in the rocker. This he did every night.

Milli and Fefe, twins born seventy years ago, thirty-seven seconds apart, celebrated their birthdays by maxing out their credit cards. Mr. Nash literally dropped his cigar onto his leg as he sat in a lawn chair when Milli’s forty-foot yacht was delivered into their cul-de-sac. Fefe’s new boyfriend, a fifty year old with a toupee and walking stick, smiled as he clung to her. She sported a white linen skirt that flowed beautiful in the wind with an ageless smile and a matching purse. Mr. Nash said nothing but almost dropped his cigar again.

Down at the barbershop, Antony the manager was seen closing early and heading over to a small bar where, unbeknownst to his wife (who wondered about an affair), he found comfort in a flavored mixed drink with a funny name. There, he met with Mr. Covey, an author of children’s books and with a little bit of a love for booze. He would sometime claim his imagination blossomed in the little bar. Antony laughed over some of Mr. Covey’s soliloquies, lifted his glass and toasted to creativity.

There were some who rebelled. The K through 12 found a low attendance rate for the juniors and seniors. Cigarette butts mysteriously appeared behind the bleachers, and though the janitor complained to the principal, little was done until the air went stale in the women’s bathroom from the smell of menthols. Mrs. Aires, the principal, would from then on have a fireside chat just before ancillary period at about 11:00am. Rap artists were brought in to declare a drug-free America and though little miss Jenna snitched on Charles who was caught with a homemade cigarette, Mrs. Aires simply sent him home with barely a pat on the hand.

Someone started to give Mr. Boone, the local drunk, a ride to church. And though he reeked, some people began to wonder. When Mr. Boone swaggered through the brown double doors holding on to Kayla the daughter of the preacher, smiles crystallized. Even Mr. Peters, who had shaved his gruff little beard, starched a crease in both leg pants and smelled of Old Spice, ended up scooting over for room on his pew.

A couple of Sundays passed. The billboard changed. And people watched.

Be prepared…

The pharmacy on the southwest side near Cutten was robbed. A few digital cameras and some jars of milk were stolen.

The little dollar theatre on Sea Crest drew a record crowd. The Day the Earth Stood Still pulled a buck out of almost sixty people during the matinee. Some smuggled a couple cans of cola and some 99 cent candies. The people were thrilled and a few even went back for the 8:00 showing.

Miss Jonah, a widow, was found dead of a heart attack in her home. She had been missing bingo night for a couple of weeks or so, until Levi ventured to knock on her door. Her home was found littered with magazines on the end times. She had a vivid collection of calendars throughout her living room and bedrooms, from little trolls, to images of unicorns, horses and even angels.

One homeless man carried a sign:

“The end is near… why lie? need a beer!”

Some people mentioned that this man made more in a year tax free than most who held a job in all of Simple Hills. That still didn’t stop those middle class philanthropists from donating to his cause.

The sermon was on lost loved ones…

“Today’s sermon: your vineyards. Have you tended your vineyards? Your lost loved ones; those who need Christ… Those who don’t know, can I get a amen’a? We see so well the speck, what about our own?”

Little Johnny, eight years young, opened his Bible to Revelations.

Aunty glanced his way as she drove from church. She said, “Baby, I need directions, could you close your Bible and help me with the signs on the road?”

“Yes Aunty,” Johnny obeyed. Johnny slowly closed his Bible. “We leaving Simple Hills?”

Aunty knew how to handle the little child’s questions. She said, “Just for a short drive in the country. It would do us some good. Getta way from all that talk.”

“What talk? You mean those signs?” asked the little boy. Aunty was relieved. She meant the gossip. The boy’s been through enough, Lord, she thought.

Aunty said nothing revealing. “Yeah, baby.”

“Aunty?” Johnny tip-toed with his words.

Again Aunty asked, “Hmm?”

Johnny asked, “How come Jesus tears?”

Aunty saw her sign and exited the main road just as her car struck a pothole. Before she could answer little Johnny, Aunty cut the steering wheel right, dodged a tree and bottomed out on the median. Johnny laughed in delight as she cursed her luck. The car rested smoking and its engine running right in front of the mysterious billboard.

It read:

Soon…

“See,” Johnny said matter-of-factly.

“See what?”

“Can’t you see that sign?”

“The billboard?”

“The sign! You hit the hole just after I asked you a question. My question was important. Jesus still moves in mysterious ways. But I can’t find that in the Bible though.”

Aunty thought about the billboard. Half hearing, she said, “Something about Jesus?”

“Yeah… Tearing. Jesus has to tear before He comes back… That’s the problem.”

“Could you fill me in later, Johnny?”

“Aunty?”

“The car right now, it’s the one tearing.”

In no longer than twenty minutes the preacher of Crusoe Church found his way to Aunty and Johnny. He pulled up in a White Fleetwood and parked it in the Eat-A-Rama across the street. Stepping out he looked at the billboard and quickly looked away. Aunty smiled, putting her hand over her eyes as a visor against the sun. The preacher drew closer as Johnny walked back to pull his Bible from the car.

“Missus Angelo. Johnny.” The preacher was a perfect gentleman.

“Pastor Adakimbo,” Aunty said.

Johnny’s head popped up from inside the car. The preacher had always had a warm side for the boy whose father and mother had passed.

Aunty trusted Pastor Adakimbo. In no time he had the car idling right and the smoke gone.

He said, “Have it serviced at Mickey’s, other than that she’s fine.”

“Mickey’s is too expensive.”

“Too expensive or too mean… I know you, Miss Angelo; you two still have that history?”

“Well…”

“There’s a mechanic by the new restaurant opening just north of here. Try there. In the mean time, remember seventy times seven.”

“That’s Mr. Right’s phone number?”

“Yes. Yes and no. I know you Aunty, you’re good people. Keep your head up… Alright Walter.”

“Johnny!”

“Kidding kid; just kidding!”

The last sign read:

Tonight.

Mr. Peters slept well that night. Before he went to bed, he sipped a red wine and thought about his days. He thought about his son who died many years ago in the army. He wondered about old friends who he’d lost contact with. And his wife; he smiled at the idea she was just a day away. For once, he put the pistol away from his dresser, laid it down in a white cloth and removed its bullets. He always had a fear, something he never shook his whole life. Tonight his sleep would be sweet.

Milli and FeFe were up watching their new plasma flat screen. Already bored with her new love, FeFe had dropped that fifty year old for a forty year old. The yacht had only been used once.

The homeless man with the beer sign was up drinking his sixth of twelve and chewing on a candy bar.

Antony had sold his shop. He used the money to buy flowers and a trip to Alaska. The flowers were for his mistress, the trip for his wife.

Mr. and Mrs. Rossyln found comfort in each other’s arms on the swing facing east. There, two cups of tea cooled softly as they watched the moon. It was a cloudy night.

The second installment of Benny’s Diner was opened just north of the billboard.

A billboard which read:

The second coming!

Benny’s Diner #2

Exit east 19th go down one mile

A group gathered by the billboard.

Little Johnny recited, “No man knows the day or hour…”

Lost in translation…

Introduction: This story is a story of perspectives. I have found (and others might agree) different views from the doctrines that we hold to. It is safe to say some people look at the rapture as a metaphor. Others put their trust in the Bible as infallible, without error. Others trust not the fallibility of man to author God’s Word the Bible. Man had to be God’s pen to write the sixty-six books of the Bible. I wrote this story inside a small coffee shop. This story shoots in between the first account of Benny’s Diner to a time during the courtship of Jose the man of God and June the waitress. “ Lost in translation” follows the conversation of two believers: one believer set in her ways, another believer seeking the truth.

Steam condensed against the large windows of Benny’s Diner, revealing the smearing of where a towel had dismally wiped them ‘clean’ It blurred the activity of passing cars and people hurrying to work. At nearly seven that morning the sun gave its usual bath of light into the crevices between the partially drawn off-white blinds that invaded many booths and reflected on several of the chromed salt and pepper shakers. Inside, the warmth of a hot grill and two portable heaters (the main console had a short in the thermostat) radiated through the air. Benny’s was a quiet hum that morning, more quiet than usual, with only a few booths taken and almost every barstool empty. The TV suspended over the grill by a black metal brace displayed captions that slowly followed the lips of a middle-aged anchorman behind a desk. It was muted, however, with its channel number hovering over the TV’s upper left side in yellow giving a little flicker ever so often from a bad reception. Benny, the owner and cook, had built his diner from the ground up, knowing every screw and bolt that had been twisted into place. But his calling was behind a greased up smock that he wore at a grill of sautéed onions. Benny smiled, scraped a metal spatula to separate green onions from eggs, and yawned. It was still early and he had been up since eleven the night before.

Benny’s Diner invited all walks of life. In one booth a tired homeless man had just come up with enough for a plate of hotcakes and a small cup of Joe. It was enough to warm his stomach, but also enough for a pack of menthols. He focused on the side of grits as if at any moment they could run off, digging his fork into them mercilessly and then plowing them between a gruffly gray beard and lips hidden somewhere within.

There was always the item, actually a pair of couples, who made time for each other prior to work. They slid in for a cup and then left maybe less than thirty or so minutes later. Benny’s usual always welcomed him with a nod and a smile (even though Benny’s memory failed him sometimes on who—a smile in return never failed him). And so Benny would then prepare their usual.

After 7am Mrs. Bodi (her husband had passed years ago but she kept his last name) would grace Benny’s with her presence. At five feet short this little golden girl still glowed. She glowed enough to capture the eyes of Mr. Wendell, who shied behind a glass of soy milk and brought his attention back to his plate of eggs Benedict. Mrs. Bodi had made it openly known to her church family of her ‘unavailability,’ but never a morning passed that she would not hide her smile from Mr. Wendell. If only Mr. Wendell could read minds. If only Mrs. Bodi would tell him she was only Ms. Bodi.

Two women sat in a little booth just beyond the sun’s reach, each with drink in hand. They were lost in conversation. Their waitress, June, had a keen eye for newcomers and said little, but gave a familiar smile. And for the last two weeks the two friends sat opposite each other in space and in thought. This was their account, shortly before the great happening known as the rapture. Their story was one of many.

“No, I, I would disagree,” Cheryl sipped her tea lightly and went on., “It can happen at any moment.” The topic, the rapture, and Cheryl’s knowledge of the end times seemed infinite. Infinite oddly enough was also the length of time Cheryl had been a Christian. And such lengths of time promote problems such as bad calls in judgment, forgetfulness of one’s youth, and the heavy applications of post it notes which in Cheryl’s case littered the rooms of her home. She was a writer: that was her excuse. Or, maybe one of them. As opposed to Jai, the little girl in a teen’s body who practically gurgled her drink instead of savoring it. Jai who was sitting across from Cheryl had many questions and Cheryl peered through each one from a pair of large lens spectacles. Cheryl’s mind had consumed magazines and various intellectual reasonings, thoughts of the greatest of the day’s thinkers. An avid dreamer, Cheryl laughed inside, a secure believer of the rapture of a pre-tribulation. Jai had distanced herself from the light comments that protruded from Cheryl’s personality, little deposits of judgmental behaviors that had slowly accumulated over the course of her seventy or so years, she figured. Jai brought her thoughts to the table. Behind them, a sizzle of bacon and hot grease popping were the joyful creations of Benny who stood over a hot grill laboring at simple works of art. He smiled and prayed silently over the food, over the stove, over his establishment. I’m going to do something great one day… Something important. He’d whisper over his diner, much like any owner of a small business who fell through the cracks. A Christian with questions; Whys, hows, doubts, those sort of thought.

“I’m afraid,” Jai said. She was hesitant that morning, a ball of nerves, but more or less hesitant. It was a deep conversation at first and soon unraveled. Her leg began to twitch beneath the little booth, far from her friend Cheryl’s eyes.

“Don’t you worry, no child, really don’t.” Cheryl’s sympathy was reserved for initial meetings. It had first captivated the young teen Jai, but that was weeks ago. Jai had questions and Cheryl had answers. Jai grimaced, waited for a moment, out of respect mostly, for Cheryl to finish her thoughts, and then she spoke.

“It’s just scary, you know? I mean, growing up I would have gone crazy… I mean, really, you waited literally for the Christ to come back every day?”

“No, almost every moment. The moments became years, the years turned to decades. I just figured, hey, it’s a crazy world.” Cheryl leaned into Jai’s wide-eyed attention with a twinkle in her eyes. She was a story-teller, a master at it from years of confrontations with unbelievers.

“So you think He could come back at any time?” Jai was fascinated, as if a fire had been lit within her. Still, she was quiet, all except for her leg, which trembled.

“Still waiting!”

“And this man, this killer Christ guy…” Jai’s curiosity had led her down a road leading only to more questions. The tea was cooling, but still a trail of steam hovered lightly over its container, rose and then died. Cheryl and Jai had been frequenting this little diner for just a couple of weeks, their friendship new and inviting. Cheryl’s traveling grandma mug was just off the mosaic tiles, a popular booth for chess players. She brought it to her lips to sip cooler, but still too hot. Turning to her friend, Jai, she mumbled something about getting another cup to be used as a sleeve.

Cheryl’s light smile pursed over the lip of her cup just as she sang, “Either too hot or too cold-”

“I know where you’re going Cheryl,” sang back Jai. Revelations seemed a stationary item viewed from different windows. And Jai was simply looking. She was a tart for her age, seventeen, smart, red headed, and easily taken for being shallow… Shallow until you entered her circle. But she had an interest in the end times.

Jai said, “Look, you spit out that chamomile if you want. It’s cold out, I’m staying warm right here.” She pointed to her tummy, which was seven months in, and she smiled warmly.

Cheryl was quiet, but to Jai she was an opened book.

“Look I woulda let him put a ring on my finger but he-”

“Look, I ain’t judging’,” Cheryl said, her eyes slightly staring into the bubble of a stomach. This made Jai shift uncomfortably. Cheryl seemed to wake from her gazing and leaned back into the booth to an almost perfect posture.

And I ain’t looking to be judged, thought the teenager. She said nothing, hoping the old bat could read her mind.

Jai cringed inside. Too cold, she thought, too cold. Jai downed more of her chai tea latte, a stray thought buzzed her mind about wishing for a larger cup size, and then she lowered her drink down onto the table with the gentleness of a feather. Jai’s eyes caught the patterns on the small booth, which were engraved for chess. She moved her fingers over the grouted areas as if she were reading Braille. Jai smiled and said, “Ever play chess?”

“A game of strategy,” Cheryl engaged, “composed of the styles of warfare during the darker times… But never could keep my interest.”

“Or never had the patience to play?” Jai sat amused. The little woman, Cheryl, sat bewildered, wondering about the pockets of skepticism she had discovered in this little pregnant teen. Ironically the shelves of memories never held a book like Jai. “No, it’s not that… The object of chess is to checkmate the king. To position your pieces in a way where your opponent is cornered, hence winning the game.” Jai considered the woman’s thoughts, gathering that Cheryl was more intelligent then it seemed, and said nothing aloud.

“A game of wits?” Jai said. An inward smile of her cornering move.

“Strategy.”

“Wits.”

“Strategy.”

“Okay,” Jai said. Wits, she said inside her mind. She knew how far she could push Cheryl. Jai however, had been stoic after a few run-ins with what she called in her mind “the crazies.” Without telling Cheryl why, Jai only listened. Jai tried not to be too mean. “Okay, okay, okay. So let’s say you played against God. Would He let you win? Or just give you wisdom and guidance in how to play?”

“Well He knows everything.”

“But He invented fun…”

“He invented fun?”

“Yeah, so I’d have fun losing. Maybe that would His purpose.”

“I don’t follow what you are saying.”

“I’m just saying, well, maybe His mind is on other things besides winning.”

“I’m just saying He knows everything.”

“You think you know everything, so if I played against you would you win?”

“I think so,” said Cheryl. This was a conversation of smiles. Jai’s right eye squinted. She thought, Really? Obviously it was a joke on Cheryl’s behalf. Jai saw the tease a mile away courted the thought of manipulating it to torture the elderly Christian, and then though, Nah, it would be taken as persecution, not insult.

“Just a thought,” Jai said. She waited until Cheryl looked up in acknowledgement. Jai went on. “We both at least agree God knows everything, right?”

“Yes, I guess you could say that.” Cheryl was tiring. She said this with more of a sigh than anything else.

“Then how is it that Jesus knows not when He is returning?” Jai, sincerely innocent in her logic, waited for a sound answer.

Cheryl had answered this question for many years. From atheists to scoffers, scoffers to the just plain curious, to all walks of life from all paths. It was a scriptural war, and Cheryl chose her weapons carefully. She recited once more, now to a little red head, “The Father hasn’t told Him…”

“So only until that moment, I mean, will He wait?” Jai had noticed the sun warming up a little outside.

“According to the Bible, no man knows the day nor hour.…” Cheryl was hiding behind what she knew.

“But surely He knows, right? I mean, can’t He tell?” Jai was bordering on angering the little old friend of hers.

“Tell who?” Cheryl lowered her voice when she said this as a curious waitress refilled her tea. June was her name and June listened as she had done since she had gotten this job. Cheryl and Jai retracted until June left and when she left Jai spoke up a little to show she wasn’t really afraid if June heard.

“I think He knows by now,” June retorted just as her back turned on the two friends sitting grimaced.

“I doubt it really. God can do anything.” Jai whispered this last part as if it was something Cheryl had never heard.

“Even not tell Himself when He is coming?” Cheryl had role-played Jai’s position in a joke which left her little red-headed companion blank.

“Just a joke, right? Smile, see?” Jai opened wide and presented a perfect row of teeth. The grin wasn’t well received, but only prodded a bitter response.

“Just don’t get left…” This Cheryl said with a low growl.

Jai mentioned, “There’s always a taxi…”

Cheryl said, “I should go...”

“I should too…” Jai dug into her booth to find a sequined little purse.

Cheryl rose from the small booth and looked for the waitress, June, who had been on her second shift and in dire need of a second cup of black Joe as well. She started to sigh but turned away from Jai to keep her aggravation hidden. Jai was very attentive, however, and sighed openly in spite, which caught Cheryl off-guard. She turned to leave, caught herself and then spun right around and slid back into the booth. She said, “Have a seat.”

“So you’re saying, Christ cannot come back until the Gospel has been preached all over the world? That is scary…”

“Why, Jai? The ten-forty window-”

“Cheryl, there are other windows…”

“No, Jai, it isn’t an actual-”

“I know, I know, ten-forty is a location. I’m talking about other windows, other avenues. I mean, we don’t need missionaries now. I mean the World Wide Web, it is that real! The internet, Cheryl. I mean, ever seen those commercials with monks on Wifi? They can practically sit in a cave in Tibet and listen to the Gospel performed by James Earl Jones. Cheryl, He knows, Jesus has to. I mean, somewhere on this earth a killer walks-”

“Well, maybe, I guess. I mean, the prophecies speak of Christ’s return. After all the prophecies, all the miracles, all said, all done; these kids, they don’t get it. They don’t see. We see vaguely. I mean, I see… Vaguely, that’s all.”

“Like a mirror, huh. And then-”

“Oh, gloriously, face to face.” It was a moment of unity. An agreement to disagree maybe, but it warmed their friendship.

“It’s so cold… So so cold out here, Cheryl. I read it somewhere in the Bible. I just stumbled upon it somehow. And looking back it didn’t make a bit a sense. In the last days, men will be lovers of self, ungrateful, unkind I even think, but not too sure, but it did say ungrateful: A cruel world. And the scary thing is, it’s like my skin is an inch thick and still I can’t feel a thing. If Jesus can’t tell by now, why is it thieves and killers recognize it? I mean, ten years ago the darkest thing on TV was never a cartoon like these days.”

“There’s more.” June had silently listened from booth two where she was wiping down the counter. She had stopped, grabbed the rims of two empty glasses by two fingers and placed them in a greasy gray bin.

June said, “I heard these stories before from a close friend. It makes sense, yes it does, but really it leaves me with more questions than answers.”

“June, we’ve come in this diner for some time now. Something about it—something about it gives out an aura…”

Cheryl tensed up a little but said nothing. Aura? she thought. She knew Jai experimented, but after claiming to receive Christ over four months ago, Cheryl had opened up a can of worms.

June caught Cheryl’s eyes, bit her lower lip and said, “Yeah, I know, I don’t know what it is but I like it.”

Jai, having felt the stings of spite, lowered her guard at June and said, “You see it too?”

“Well, I mean, the Mayan calendar ends in a few years. Then, the secret passageway in the Ancient Egyptian tombs is said to, well never mind. And then there are so so so many religions. I bet if you could just pick something from each you could enter Nirvana.”

Jai laughed. Cheryl hesitated a grin. June went on.

“My fiancé is a little older than me. So I listen to his wisdom. But I for a while couldn’t for the life of me see how a good person who lives a morally right life could go to a hell with sinners. He says we’re all sinners and if that is true we all die in sin and that’s all she wrote baby!”

“I couldn’t see Mozart in hell. Such a genius, I mean no one knows really who’s there and who ain’t…”

“I bet some could tell,” Cheryl said. But it was quiet, almost inaudible. Almost. A coy smile appeared on June’s face.

“The stars talk to us little misses prissy. They orbit us with a light that was shone ancient times over. All walks of life are sacred; whether you hear Jesus in a still small voice or Buddha in a loud one. I don’t care if you think my soul will be ripped into pieces in an eternal hell. Personally it’s people like you that give Christians a very bad name. ”

“June, you are more heathen than that hypocrite boyfriend of yours.” Cheryl was now in rare form.

“Miss Priss, you and your god can go to paradise for all I care. Jai, I see why you search. It’s easy, you are hungry. And it’s like you are searching for something that can’t be found. Well, you know what? I don’t know, and at least I’m honest. I have been searching for my whole life. And still I don’t know.”

Cheryl had seen Jose, June’s boyfriend, a strikingly handsome man who visited the diner often before work. Cheryl cringed inside. Her age had shown several times during this talk, as well as her bitterness. She had heard the rumors. She had seen the truth. She bit her lower lip, said nothing and sipped her tea.

June wondered why these Christians were so unchristian. She openly laughed and pointed at Cheryl.

“Why are you pointing at me?” Cheryl more bit than asked.

“You must think you’re perfect.” June lowered the bill and said, “It’s dangerous to judge… in Christianity as well as in Buddhism.”

Cheryl caught it. Jai wanted to be honest, thought to herself about its eternal consequences and said nothing. She was worse than she was before she was saved. This grieved June, who caught the teen’s eyes staring away. June turned to walk away.

“And you will know Me by the love for one another,” June proclaimed, which made Cheryl’s mouth drop an additional inch. June turned her head and said, “Yes, I know the Bible. Do you?”

Jai looked at Cheryl and then looked at June and then back at Cheryl. She had a ball of nerves bouncing around inside her. “This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t it…”

“Shut up!” But it was too late. Jai had questions now. And Cheryl had seen this before but had not foreseen this before. Jai was dying for Truth.

“So you’re Buddhist June?” Jai admitted interest in June, despite her present company.

“No, just a seeker,” June said as she took Jai’s glass. She said, “Like you.”

“Well what have you found?”

June wanted to say something, something profound, something that would win this battle between the evil Christian lady, the seeking lost loved one and her own thoughts that seemed blurred. June had considered so much. And when the teen turned to her all she could say was, “This world is worth living in. It is beautiful. And anything beyond that, I truly don’t know. Jai, I don’t know…”

June again turned to leave. And then over her shoulder she turned her head and said, “All I know is Christianity is different than all religions. Different in all walks of life.” June looked to Cheryl. Then she looked back to Jai and said, “They have the most hypocrites, but the most promise.”

June was afraid inside. She thought her words would damn her. She went away almost crying, afraid for Jai’s soul and hers (she could care less for Cheryl’s but then she dismissed that thought). Almost grieved, she hated the way she had reacted, but thought the way she had been treated was abominable. Her shift was far from over. Jose, her fiancé, was late in meeting her today and she didn’t know why.

She was about to call for Wendy to take over the rest of the shift when all of a sudden Benny cried over the grill, almost in perfect timing, “Sorry June, Wendy’s sick. Something like a bug or flu or something. Might be gone awhile.… Think ya got another in ya’?”

June decided to face her demons. She turned back to the booth, walked passed Mr. Wendell, picking up his glass (it was half full) and then stood right in front of Cheryl and said, “God knows everything, right?”

Cheryl said nothing.

“So I’m forgiven anyway, right?” June asked.

“For what?”

“For this,” June turned over the soy milk, causing Jai to erupt with laughter. The whole morning that incident was recited like a scene from a crazy sitcom. Cheryl left wet and soggy, but Jai stayed and asked to speak to June.

“Forgive us… us Christians.”

“According to the Bible that already happened,” said June.

“Yeah, thought Someone important said that.”

“Right, that Someone was kinda important right?”

“Heard He split time, June.”

“Literally.”

“Ha!”

“Keep searchin’”

“I found it June. You were right…”

“About Buddhism?”

“No. Ha! God no,” Jai said, “About pouring the drink down Cheryl’s lap.”

“Oh, I was taking a shot in the dark about that Buddha thing anyways. I figured you were talking about old golden girl!”

“Oh golden girl had it coming June.”

“We all got it comin’, kid.”

“Whatcha’ mean?”

“No matter what you believe in, according to most major thought there is a price to pay in the end. Do your homework kiddo.”

“I did. And one more thing,” Jai said, “I ain’t no kid. I heard about your fiancé. Some kind of prophet huh?”

“Yeah, he’s important,” June said. “Some said he could raise the dead. Never seen it though.”

“But why?”

“Don’t know.”

“No? Why don’t you believe?”

“Oh, I’m a believer.”

“But for a moment there…”

“Learn from your friend little miss priss.” June lightly took her cup, turned around to leave and then said, “Matthew 7:1, read it and weep kid.”

“Judge not lest you be judged. Powerful verse for warding off hypocrites.”

Jai missed June’s smile. All she saw was June scratching the nape of her neck with her free hand and all she heard was a sigh of tiredness. Jai, small in the universe, felt important for some reason. She felt some sort of connection to this waitress.

“June?” Jai’s eyes went uncertain. June turned just in time to see them squint in unbelief. She could tell Jai was far, far from being a Cheryl. June also thought maybe this one was different. Too many bad apples, thought the waitress, had ruined the whole bunch.

“Yes?” June humored her. She knew what was coming.

“Another cup?” Jai did a kind of smile, and June returned it kind of back.

“Sure. I mean, it’s my job: you sit, I serve,” said June. June’s thoughts were behind a curtain of a smile.

“Why not you sit and I serve,” Jai’s eyes twinkled. June’s heart did a flip and she returned with two cups of black Joe.

“Your heathen of a Christian friend won’t put a damper on me. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.” June’s coldness was apparent. Too many bad apples, thought the kind waitress again, and smiled and wondered.

“Trust me, so have I. Listen I, won’t scare you.” Jai then thought on her feet and changed tactics, “Sit, you heathen!”

“Heathens are plentiful in my life, you should see my boyfriend.”

“Heard about him. I seem to run into a lot of people that know him.”

“Really? Small world.” June’s voice carried scissors.

“Again I say sit, heathen!” Jai laughed as she said this, and noticed for once her leg had relaxed.

“Don’t make me rebuke you.”

“Sit!”

“Okay, but only for a moment.” June almost collapsed into the seat.

“Can you keep a secret?” June’s eyes twinkled as she said this. Jai wondered if she was thinking about her boyfriend.

“Shoot,” Jai had a way to ease her newfound friend.

“We’ve been engaged a week, but I said some things, hurtful things. Things most people don’t say unless they are really off.”

“Why don’t you believe?” Jai went straight for June’s throat.

“To the point huh?” June said, “I know about the end times… Jose is full of all that. I just don’t know… I mean…”

“You know about the last days?”

“From a boyfriend who says we weren’t dating? Come on, he is the most fence riding-” June relaxed in her honesty but refrained from anything too revealing.

“But if he’s wrong it’s cool, right? But what if… what if he is right?”

“The guy’s been dead two thousand years Jai, don’t you think He’d be back by now? I mean maybe he got stuck in traffic riding a comet or something on the way here.”

“Light travels at 186,000 miles per second… I’m also sure that since He is the Light of the World He is already shining somewhere over LA.”

“This is the Big Apple.”

“Oh come on June, you are much, much quicker than that!”

“Hey, give me a break. I’ve been up all night and since my reinforcements aren’t in I gotta push another shift on top of all of that!”

“June, you are a seeker,” said Jai. And then she said, “I could go for a smoke.” She patted her belly and yawned.

“Don’t quit now, you are almost there,” June said.

“Yeah, I can almost feel the birth pains.”

“Your double talk kinda reminds me of your little friend,” June smiled. She didn’t show how afraid she was becoming. She was starting to wonder about Christianity and the what if’s.

“I was afraid,” Jai confessed. Her puppy dog’s looked right into June’s and then away in a sort of disgrace.

“What was that?” a quiet June asked. She had heard but now listened carefully.

“That’s why I accepted Christ as God.” Jai paused, bit her lower lip and trembled through her next statement, “I was afraid…”

June was no martyr. However, the conversation was a tad thick. She said, “No lightning bolts? No burning bushes? No fire from heaven?”

There was a wonder in Jai after that. “More like accept or die in your sins into a burning hell for the rest of your afterlife.”

“The afterlife huh?” June thumbed her engagement ring, saying nothing.

“That’s a scary word. People do crazy things for it, you know?” Jai was a mess inside. Beneath the booth she continued to carry a nervous twitch in her right thigh and silently wished she could kill it with her fork.

“Like the sign formerly known as Prince?” June said slowly as Jai’s leg relaxed.

“You are right,” Jai said. She smiled back.

“It’s too heavy in here!” they said together and then shared in a needed chorus of laughter.

June, Jai and the rest of the regulars (and the few newcomers as well) sat quiet for a moment that stilled time. It was like there was an off button about the end times that was not pushed for a time after time. Just long enough for the two to relax. But not long enough to let them forget.

“God doesn’t afraid me,” June said. She had liked her coffee black, but this time attempted to flavor her life with amaretto and a hint of cinnamon. The hum of activity paralleled with the slow grinding of a metal spatula on an iron stove.

“Why? And any reason for the lack of sentence structure?” Jai then thought overkill with the sentence structure thing and said, “Never mind the weirdness… But answer the question. Why?”

“Because, I know I’m pure.” June needed cigarette.

“Como?”

“I know that I won’t be damned…”

“But if you were to die in your sins…”

“According to your Bible, Jai, if I die with one sin I am damned.”

“But I…”

“Don’t get it? My walk is not yours sweetie. I have always known I’d die in honor.”

“How do you know?”

“Just like how you just know you’re saved!”

It was almost noon. June enjoyed a cup between serving the regulars that showed up and a few new faces as well. Jai said nothing, peering into a little pink Bible she had picked up at a thrift store just south of Benny’s. She had loved to flip it open and read the previous owner’s thoughts and epiphanies. And it was good, she read, wondered about its wisdom and then flipped again. A smile and nothing else was needed to be said.

Jai had needed to leave. Unfortunately her little SUV seemed to have problems starting, and though it was her first day of community college she missed, she thought about the cosmic’s correlations and considered the possibilities of a higher power at work. Namely God.

“Okay God, Jesus, whoever is up there.” Jai wanted to scream but ended up swearing inside. She said, “What’s up? I got just enough for a ham on bagel and my car still won’t start. Do I need to do Bible fortune cookie?” She pulled out her Bible and flipped.

“Jai! It’s cold out, lemme take you home.” June had stepped out to get a smoke and just happened on Jai. Her car wouldn’t start either.

“We should talk…”

“Inside then, please,” Jai said, passing by a tired June going into the little diner. June stomped out her cigarette, exhaled long and dry and went inside.

“I wish I knew the meaning of life.”

“I think that is the wrong question.”

“What? Care to explain, Gandhi?”

“Wondering the meaning of life is a worry to me. I mean we focus on it and we miss it. Life I mean, it should be enjoyed, embraced, loved, even hated.”

“Wise words from a teenager.”

June and Jai sat. They enjoyed the morning and the noon and long into that evening. June, tired, dog tired, was able to jump start her car and go a length of a distance to the small apartment that Jai had called her home. She never asked who the baby’s father was and Jai said nothing, but she did notice June’s kind quietness.

Just before June left Jai said something more forced and unnatural than all the talks they had that day. She said, “I feel like God is calling you to a decision June… And it weighs in the balances, eternity in one hand and answers in the other.”

“A prophet’s reward?”

“You know so much June… Oh God, listen just this once.”

June said goodbye as Jai shut the door.

An Account from Many Stories

Introduction: This story finds the writer an individual who has fallen through the cracks of life. Smitten with a case of schizophrenia and a heavy knowledge of the Book of Revelations, the writer must make his way through what is real, and what not. Here is his account in essay form. This account concerns the web of one’s thoughts, the ghosts from mental illness, the elusiveness of reality, and the finite workings of one’s mind. Yes this account is a true story.

I writhed in bed at night and listened to the conversations of birds. I was home and it was late. My parents were on the other side of the house and all the lights were out. With my back against the bed I continued in a stream of thinking as I stared at the ceiling outside of time. Cars like waves passed by and I breathed out loud. I could have migrated to the living room to watch the television show where they embedded little scriptures with scenes of nature, but I felt like just staying in bed. Serenity had a sister in my soul called chaos and they too often wrestled. It was the hour of twilight things and I listened attentively yet without ease. My mind had erupted with violent scars on my psyche that could only be cooed through the thoughts of sunsets, waterfalls and happy thoughts. The memories that were held locked in me were as cold as a vault door and just as heavy. It was calming. I found my sister’s room cozy in my parent’s home. Loneliness, a once fellow companion, had turned into a cruel and hard dictator over the years. And a commitment to wait until marriage had shaved the hairs from the inside of my legs as I rested (barely) knee to knee in the fetal position. It was even now that looking back I realized how priceless that little vow I had kept had become; as well as how hard it was to maintain. The wars I fought, the standards I kept were all overlooked…

It had always been a struggle to comprehend anything really. I was a homeless man in a house with a poverty of mind which ran as fluent as sewage through a clogged pipe. It continued to run, or rather pour, throughout the night in sync with the low drum of the air conditioner unit. And as would the AC disengage, so would my mind rest until the thermostat hit 82 and kicked back on again. This was my torture: A torture in which words were lost in translation concerning those on the outside looking in.

My eyes were open and at night I listened as the night sounds orchestrated an ensemble. Though I felt like a live wire, surged and full of energy that was within me; for the life of me I could not find rest. The birds on the outside of my window sang sweetly beneath an irritating bright street lamp. I had to cover my head because the street lamp kept me up. To the birds I talked back. And to me they happily responded. This is the story of my pain.

I remember the gray most. I remember the deafness to my pains, the now constant creaks in reality that had become a reality codependent on my very imagination. My soul had cracked. To anyone on the outside this analogy seemed to draw the best picture. To say it best, I was crazy. To say it clinically, I was schizophrenic.

People on the outside, those with good intentions, had seen my mindset of fear and already they would want to heal in moments what took a beautiful decade or so to establish. Those were the good people who didn’t understand the torments of those who react to even the smallest of gestures, the slightest movements of people and the little things. Those with frail minds no doubt worked harder than any soul without the maddening condition—a condition that conditioned every moment to some of the more unfortunate.

While people worked, I had become a supervisor of invisible children that ran around me without my consent. They helped me tend my father’s lawn and as I pulled at the weeds I found some serenity in thinking I could pull the weeds from within me as well. I had little will inside of me. I would clean the Formica tabletop in my kitchen having heaven in mind (rather having my mansion in heaven in mind. Time lost its price and I found the squares in my kitchen rather OCD soothing. I could easily put on the TV, but it bored me often or talked back to me too much or I just felt uncomfortable thinking it brought order to the day so it usually stayed off.

However, one day I made a mistake…

I turned the TV on.

Before I had forgotten how the Brady Bunch had prophesied into my life, or how much Sanford and Son had uniquely fit the profile of my own father and me, I thought the people on the TV were trying out for a spot in hell. To understand the poverty of my mind would be to understand the pain of a fallen mule in a well. He moans and sighs yet can’t express the pain of two broken legs nor the inability to comprehend his true predicament of how to escape the well.

So when the preacher on TV told me there was a dress rehearsal for a new Christian movie I immediately got ready. I was excited and more interested in the movie, yet I had overlooked the small note of where the preacher on the Christian station had mentioned the site. I had overlooked the idea of how to get there. Immediately I gave up everything and followed.

The warfare on my mind was heavy, almost tangible and dripping, and it gave rarely the trauma seen on the inside. I had no job. I had no job, but all the time in the world. I paced constantly, following the tiles in ‘L’ shapes. Usually when I followed the L’s there was always someone who would get nerved and command me to stop. Looking back I could see my captivity, but when I was going through this season in my life I realized life was like a labyrinth with no end. I had to get ready, the rehearsal was coming up. Looking back I saw how painful it was. Yet at that time, I was unaware of how trivial things to others were monumental feats for me.

I had read books. I had seen things. But I had thorns in my sides and I had dug my nails deep into those thorns trying to loosen them. I was the kid who looked every day to the east. I wondered when the stock market would crumble. Surely a new world order was rising and time was either short or there was no time at all. I prayed for the protection of my country. I warred in faith for my family. America’s judgments were soon. There was a division between the light and the dark. A struggle... A war… People often laughed at the idea of Armageddon. My heart failed at that thought.

I had with me my Constance, a Christian singer who happily signed this poster of mine while I had done security for her at Freedom World. I remember sitting front row seat as she did her sound check just enjoying the view. The sun was out, a cloudless day and I had fallen in love, again. But that moment had been forgotten; easy to recall, but that was too hard for a mind like mine to do. It was like my mind could easily paint the picture but could not reveal it to anyone.

Constance’s poster made it only a block from my house until it found its way into the drain torn in pieces. I had wandered into the racket club just off a small road about a block from my house, a path I had rarely walked, and seated myself in front of a glass case full of white towels. It was the type of place that I always saw but never visited.

I was going to the rehearsal and I was going to turn myself in. It was nighttime and I had persuaded the cop I had pills… I didn’t tell them it was my medication.

Time seemed nonexistent.

Or better yet, the concept of time in my mind was a black page. I told Mr. Officer I had stashed something in the drain that he should see. This officer, having found Constance abused and ripped, gave me a personal ride in his vehicle to the Downtown Jail. His radio was on KKRN, that I did recall being the local Christian station, I after following what I could with my eyes until the roads passing and my attention span falling, my thoughts spread over a universe of imagination. I hadn’t dressed well for the rehearsal. A thousand thoughts and a few moments later, stories I made in my mind would contribute into a quilt of demential.

The birds enjoyed their conversations with me, giving a twang of sarcasm in their expressions and eyeing me from the side of their heads. I watched the stars as we drove and drove. I wondered what their alignments had spoken. I wondered what they had to do with me. The moon, I had forgotten until later, gloried in its beauty. I sat in that police car.

It seemed like days later we arrived at the jail. It was still dark, like when we left the little racket club that night.

Downtown Jail swarmed with officers. One, noticing my contentment, offered his curiosity.

“What’s wrong with this guy?” I heard from in the back seat.

“The devil might get him,” the cop said to another. It was black as death outside. And this added to my little story I composed in me. I listened. The interesting thing about my diagnosis was I could listen when I wasn’t seen listening and yet I could watch my thoughts ping pong against each other when I was looking someone square in the eye. I failed to mention that a part of my thought processes refuses to filter out the five senses’ interpretations of what they see, hear, taste, touch, and smell.

I entered the jail. There were people everywhere lined up, sitting down, walking around. The darkness was great. But I wasn’t fearful. I boldly stepped into the room and sat down. Some may have said I was stoned. There was a faucet on the other side of the room and I watched it from the distance. All around me were the type of people I may have read in books or seen on the television. My mind raced, the medicine failing to punch in left me with visions of grandeur. I had found a scripture, read it, studied it and wondered. It fed my psychosis like bread crumbs to a flock of pigeons.

Of all the stories I had encountered on the jail systems those in the holding tank were unlike any I had seen. I wondered where they hid the movie cameras. The people lined the walls like weeds along a lattice, and though looking back I remember that they didn’t seem as fearful as they were. They just looked like people who had a story that few had really read. To a beautiful mind like mine, the smallest coincidences could be seen as acts of God that no one else could comprehend. The toughest of the tough shared the room. The darkness was a shroud. I felt little, a light among fallen stars. Beside me another that seemed to read my very thoughts stepped back in horror.

“Christian!” he said. I looked to him. He said, “Fallen like a star?”

He had read my thoughts! He said, “Your pastor has died?” He was an African American I remember and I could sense his fear. And he could sense my sensing.

“Stay away!” he said.

He was psychic and when I confronted him, he literally continued to prod and prod.

“You’re on a quest. This is a movie to you? ”

I paid him no mind.

“Pastor died? You still think you can change the world?”

Still I turned away. He moved closer.

“Constance? Who is she?”

I was thirsty. “I’m getting up and I am walking to the faucet,” I said. The others looked at me. The commotion died, I felt fear.

“They told me before I moved to declare my actions,” I said. The others moved back in fear. It registered just then why the officer told me to say that. He was protecting me. I moved to the faucet and I took a drink.

“I’m going to sit back down,” I said. I went back to sit down.

And so I was feared.

Overnight we were kept, packed with all our perspectives transparently merging with each other’s. We were drowning in our psychosis simply watching each other and then having them confirm our own insanities.

We were being held in a room no larger than fifteen by fifteen, all of us a mob or so of seventy. We all sat and stood, walked about or leaned against a wall talking or whispering or just listening. Imagine a memory fading but the feeling not fading. Like a dense cloud over an exposed negative. And yet the cloud is more visible than the image itself. That was what it was like. The darkness around me made my spirit fight, and though my mind knew something was not right, I continued to strain through the grayness. The tenseness of knowing at any moment I could be beat, or hurt, the idea that there was a purpose, that all this had a reason battled not in me. I was more concerned with the missing cameras. I was piecing together pieces that did not match quite as much but enough. The idea of conversations cut and pasted into a dialogue of its own would describe my time in jail the best. One man’s thoughts explained and revealed and then dissected by another’s carefully continued to feed my psychosis again. We shared one restroom, with a small wall no higher than my chest for privacy. It is scary to me to remember the walls in my mind were painted with falling stars and shrouds of darkness. Evil… Something my mind could not draw out or explain: An evil that we all shared in that little fifteen by fifteen. End of the world types of trips that had to be written by an enemy most people deny. I was gasping for comprehension. The people around me were too. We were all lost together and yet we didn’t know it.

They put me in a cell by myself. I could not tell how long I was in the cell but my mind continued to roll much like the reel of a projector. It filmed everything I saw and pocketed all of it away. They left me alone for I believed they feared me for some unknown reason. I felt invincible. Almost like all I faced I was certain I’d rise above and that though fear was prevalent it was also a catalyst that made me courageous. I felt like I could dream and soon that dream slowly became reality and that reality burst into flames. I thought they were going to kill me. I thought that if I stayed long enough they were certainly going to suffocate me with poisonous gas. Already above me I just knew that the sprinkler heads were fitted with pipes that housed something lethal but what I wasn’t sure of. I heard that President Clinton was aware of my detention and something told me he was planning to kill my family by shooting them into outer space to explode in a rocket.

There were no bars but a glass door that I could look out of.

They kept us without food until later where I remember them passing out sandwiches with fears of them poisoning them. There was a box that they told us if we opened it something would happen. There were complaints of hunger and threats of cannibalism. I wasn’t afraid. Maybe lost in me, but I enjoyed the making of the film.

That was when I began to preach. I preached through the thoughts of President Clinton having my family sent to explode into outer space in a rocket. I preached through the thoughts of my father’s house we were building being torn and us being tormented outside of time and lost in the vacuum of space. I preached when the people around me could read my thoughts and grew in sync with my actions. I preached in the holding tanks when darkness entered the room like a cloud. I preached when days and hours seemed like weeks. I preached because that was what I did whenever I entered a trial. And all the while I tested every thought that went into my mind. And I blessed God.

My bed was in the lower quarters of the jail and in the lower quarters of the jail there was a darkness that I had rarely seen. It was far from dismal. My thoughts were racing. I felt like I was in outer space and that I had fallen through time. A crack in the wall seemed to split my perception somehow. There were tables that were fastened to the floor and four chairs equidistant from each other. An incomplete wall with plumbing fixtures and pipes reminded me of my father’s house we had built. The wall was held in a bubble that contained oxygen and was orbiting in space. The people told me that my father was being tortured. It was not something that my mind could conjure but something my mind could wrap around and fuse with… There I met with Mohammed Ali. And I preached to him. He beat me up and yet I still didn’t curse God. So I preached to him some more.

That night I saw Reddy. He looked over at me and smiled. He had been hearing me preach to all. Reddy was a fellow musician I went to high school with. We used to skip class and would be free styling in the theatre rooms behind the stage. Reddy had followed with interest me in the jail from a distance. I saw him smile when one person in particular had caught the flames of passion I was spreading.

No one in my family knew how much I went through. No one could pick the lock that vaulted in me. Though the reality of the past and the perspective of looking back are different, some traumas have the ability to stay the same: Where the memories remain unsifted as footprints on the moon. The stories.

Slowly my mind, which had wrapped around everything from my home to the jail, started to unravel. I didn’t think about the movie. I didn’t understand time with its stretches and its pulling. I didn’t even take into account the sovereignty that God had a complete purpose for me there until I wrote this story.

There was a desire in a man I was preaching to.

The admittance of being wrong: I was wrong. I had not found the cameras. Slowly my mind began to sober. I had learned that my family was still alive and more importantly safe from President Clinton. All because of a misfire in my head or some chemical released in the wrong amount. I had left planet earth and returned with a dozen stories that no one around me had even seen.

What really happened? I was crazy. The night that I was escorted to the city jail, my parents slept through the doorbell which the police officer so readily rang. The trip to the jail was less than forty-five minutes in length but because of my concept of time it had seemed longer. I still had no clue how long I was detained. I was given one shower. So, it must not have been three weeks. That I thought it was at least someone I don’t remember who offered advice to smoke because it helped to beat the crack habit. And I also met the mayor who I found had a heavy problem with cursing.

The end.

Show and tell

Introduction: I found my love of writing again called from the office of that same little coffee shop in the darker side of Houston’s colorful museum district. Children should stay away from prophesy. I was served it cold like coffee in my early ages. From magazines sprawled over our dining room tables to late night interviews with experts. It was a normal wonder that even I thought others were fed. Looking back I realized God’s Hand on me, its dangers would continue to grip me. These were my demons. Later with a dose of lithium and closure my demons would haunt from the peripherals of my mind’s eye. I was crazy but scriptural. I was lost to others but brave and fearless facing my fears every moment of each and every day.

“And this is my project,” little April Hodges of the third-grade class announced, her face buried behind a white poster board which she presented on two rocking and nervous knees. She was second to last in Mrs. Calibri’s homeroom to do show and tell. The exhibits ranged from a police officer’s mother to an uncle who was actually only one-sixteenth Indian (he had the headdress to prove it) to a box of old baseball cards (with which to a class is never really boring) and Mrs. Calibri gleaned every drop of wonder her children could dispense. After young April was a little boy waiting named Alfredo with a glass jar of half dead crickets (a jar which he forgot to puncture breathing holes in its lid) which he occasionally shook to resuscitate any of the ones not moving. Penelope, in pigtails, spied from beside him in her desk and shook her head. Boys, she thought.

“So lovely April!” Mrs. Calibri said. A few people joined her in applause and she asked, “Now can you tell me who these people are?” In the audience someone sniffled into their hand. Politely April waited. The room rich in color had positive posters and neon letters and animals, animals that galloped, and rested and watched. April was polite. She even smiled as Kevin excused himself because of a failing bladder.

“Yes, this is me, this my nanny and this is my puppy, Tum Tum.” April had to lower her masterpiece to see and with her left hand she awkwardly pointed out three stick figures. She looked around and then added, “Tum Tum is purple because he has a cold.”

“And what are you doing with your nanny and your puppy Tum Tum, April?” Mrs. Calibri asked. Someone yawned, obviously not a patron of the arts. Little Miss April again waited patiently.

“We’re playing,” April said. Her look, one of many Mrs. Calibri had learned to love, carried a tone with it. The third-grade teacher Mrs. Calibri smiled and apologized.

“Playing?” asked Mrs. Calibri. Something in the picture lagged in her mind. April nodded. Then Mrs. Calibri asked, “But how can you play with your feet so high off the ground?”

April said, “We’re dancing! Everyone knows when you dance your feet come off the ground!” Those who obviously knew this fact laughed aloud, and according to Mrs. Calibri’s third-grade class, everyone knew.

“But April, no one can dance with their feet so high off the ground!” Her words colorful, Mrs. Calibri giggled, a giggle that caught a little heart unaware.

And this put a puff into April, who lowered her artwork staunchly and said, “I will!”

“Oh April, I believe you can!” Mrs. Calibri said. She thought about those words after she said them and grimaced.

It made April stand motionless and horrified. “No you don’t,” she said.

An authentic question mark could almost be seen above her teacher, who asked, “No, I don’t?” Mrs. Calibri turned to see the whole room watching her. She went silent.

“No, Mrs. Calibri, you don’t believe me.” The little girl’s lips trembled. Little Oscar winced in his seat, asked to be excused to go pee-pee; Mrs. Calibri nodded and he left almost tripping on his shoelaces. This did not distract Mrs. Calibri’s class one bit.

“Why would you say something like that little miss?” Her tone was firm. That made April’s eyes fire up, and for a little girl, she seemed highly intimidating. Every student in the classroom turned their head from one to another. Penelope wide eyed, her mouth dropped, had stopped her doodling on her ancient three-week-old book cover and started to cross out the hearts by Alfredo’s name. Alfredo seemed too occupied with his nose and after finishing his business, smeared an unsightly thing under the desk table top. Penelope drew a frown on her book cover.

April took a stance, anchoring her left foot forward, and said, “Because Jesus is telling me you are making up stories.” A razor silence; the classroom remained in shock except for Pedro, who still had trouble with the English language. He strategically sat in the back near the only window, and when he got too bored he would just stare out of it (but today it was overcast and he feared it would rain because he was a walker). But he understood enough to be quiet when the rest were.

Mrs. Calibri was frustrated. Jesus guy I resent you… she thought. By now she was fed up and her tone was raised as she said, “Miss April, you are the one making up stories. You need to tell your imaginary friend-” before she could stop herself, before she could realize the consequences of those few words, it was too late. Her first thought was of her job, then the kids listening. Detraveon’s jaw fell and let out an, “Oooh!” Penelope began to write his name on her book cover.

“He is real, Mrs. Calibri, I tell you that thousands of times!” Oscar had returned, wiping his hands on his corduroy shirt, his shoelaces tied. He smiled at his accomplishment and sat in his seat behind Detraveon ,whoDetraveon, who still had his mouth open.

“Well baby, if that is so, can he hear us? Tell me April, why doesn’t he say something to me?”

April said nothing.

“So can you tell me where he is?” Mrs. Calibri demanded. There was a reverence in her classroom when she used this tone. She hated this tone. It pained her to raise her voice like this.

“Mrs. Calibri, look around… Do you see any people up here besides me and you?” April turned to her third-grade logic. Normally a child would say something like this and it would bring a smile to Mrs. Calibri. Normally, she coughed on her grin, trying to keep her tone constant.

“So only you can see him?” she asked.

“Mrs. Calibri, can I take my seat?” the grown up in April said.

“Please, April,” Mrs. Calibri said. “Please take your seat.”

“Oh, and Mrs. Calibri…?”

“Yes April?” she said, her hand rising to her forehead.

“Jesus said…” April started to say, but her teacher’s hand sprung up.

“Please have a seat now Miss April,” she said.

“There’s a pain in that child.” At home Mrs. Calibri was known as Kat. She snuggled next to her husband, Edward, who half-listened and half-followed the sports page. His back was against the wall, his right leg up over a down pillow where he rested atop his bed. He leaned through a pair of spectacles into a column of statistics.

With a little of a mumble he said, “The one with Mr. Jesus as a friend?” He turned the page of his paper. He knew already, certain whom his other half had spoken of, and waited.

Kat hung her head over the side of the bed in agony and groaned.

“If only it was Buddha or Mohammed… But Jesus… Why Jesus!?” Kat complained. A grunt, a sigh later and a bored husband gave up any coherent conversation and interjected maybe the girl was a prophet.

“Ha, ha! Next she’ll be turning orange juice to wine… At the second grade, she should be doing cartwheels and hanging from monkey bars during recess, not witnessing to the little Indian kids.”

Something she said pulled her darling of a husband back to reality. He said, “Did they listen?”

“I simply pulled her aside.” Kat recalled her day. It had been a miserable day from that point on.

“Bay, did they listen?” Edward had now put down his paper and took off his glasses. He relished one more moment of sports heaven and came back down to earth.

“The little Indian kids…? Of course! The little missionary had them praying at the seesaw,” Kat said.

“Bay-” he said. Edward was now missing his sports page. “Dearly.”

Kat continued, “The little Russians and then the two Hispanics who keep to themselves by the tetherball pole… And then Alfredo, who already wonders about how come tomorrow never comes… She’s gonna put another hole in his head!”

“Bay!”

Kat sobered up, “What!?!”

“Bay, that ain’t it, is it?” Edward said with a gruff as he looked longingly for his paper then rolled his eyes. Kat caught his tone and commented on it. He said, “Never mind.” But he knew it was too late for saying never mind.

“Never mind isn’t an option in this conversation,” Kat said, “Define, and I quote, ‘that ain’t it.’”

“Just listen to yourself Kat. Listen to the way you sound.”

“I don’t need some psychoanalysis right now.” Kat got up to go to the kitchen, and grabbed her nape.

“What do you need?” Edward said as she turned the corner.

Kat looked back with a smart but loving tone. “Maybe a husband.” Smiling as she left, she heard her husband sadly apologize.

Later.

“What?” Mrs. Calibri said. She was sitting in the teacher’s lounge when Mr. Webb, the school counselor, broke the news.

“One of the Indian children’s mothers called,” he said. Mrs. Calibri said nothing, thinking only the worst.

“She wants to know how come her little one is praying to April’s imaginary friend Jesus.”

Mrs. Calibri said more of nothing.

“We been kicking God out of schools since the sixties, now a little brat with an imaginary friend is praying Him back in.” Mrs. Calibri couldn’t be more sarcastic.

Mr. Webb said, “Excuse me?”

“She’s too little to stop. I mean an older person we could reason with, even expel. But this little girl, if we point this out to her, who knows what it’ll do. Yet, we can’t not say anything, because the kids will wonder.”

“It’s easy,” Mr. Webb said.

In response Mrs. Calibri questioned his wisdom.

“Just take her out of the equation,” Mr. Webb enjoyed a drag from his cigarette and whispered the smoke out the small window beside the fridge. He offered, “Move her to another classroom.”

“So she’ll lead more souls away from eternal damnation? Of course not!” Mrs. Calibri, having quit smoking years ago, found herself looking at Mr. Webb’s pack of Reds.

“We can’t contain her. How about solitary confinement.” The joke went a long way to awakening the thirdgrade teacher from her longings.

She said, “Yeah, how do we do that when she talks to this imaginary friend? Put them in separate rooms?”

“Don’t know, any better ideas?” Mr. Webb flicked the dying cigarette into the trash and as he walked out Mrs. Calibri considered solitary confinement.

Mr. Webb said, “Hmm, the basement sounds good.”

“Evil Mr. Webb, pure evil I say.” She smiled. Mr. Webb went back to his office.

And then came the expected. Mrs. Calibri had just finished repairing the damage of her third-grade natural disaster. The little books back on their shelves, the pens neatly deposited in neon zipped bags, chalks and markers, crayons placed back in tote trays. The dry erase board washed, its cloth erasers wetted and left out to dry and, of course, all the little knick-knacks that remind a teacher of her day. She gave herself a well deserved smile and thought of finishing the day with a Coke of some sort.

“Hello, I’m uh, April’s, uh, guardian,” a tall lanky sort of a man presented himself at her door.

Mrs. Calibri’s thought left her much needed Coke and she said, “I can see the resemblance.”

Running a hand through his hair he half-smiled and said, “Actually, we get that, we get that a lot.”

“Really?” Part of her was in cleaning mode, the other part already home.

“Yes, it’s uncanny,” the tall lanky man said. He rubbed his nape and quietly rolled out, “But I, uh, am more or less…”

“More or less you are not related, right?” Mrs. Calibri said. She sized him up a little, grinned when he grinned, and then shook his outstretched hand.

“Something like that. Sorry.”

After that he said nothing and she said nothing and in an awkward moment they simply stood there.

Mrs. Calibri said, “It’s okay.”

“Actually I came here because it isn’t okay,” he said. Another silence.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Oh, I’m sorry: Eric.” Eric dug his thumbs into his pants pockets and then almost nervously tore them out to give Mrs. Calibri another handshake. “Eric Knowles.”

“I’m Kathryn Calibri. I’m April’s homeroom teacher.”

“I’m her guardian.”

“Oh… I think you mentioned that,” Mrs. Calibri smiled at him. It was safe to say she liked him. Eric felt a comfortableness and began to open up.

“Thing is Mrs. Calibri, April has a lot of friends.”

“Imaginary, right?”

“Of course, you’ve heard her talk.”

“Only of one.” It was a question more than an answer. Mrs. Calibri was probing.

“One?”

“Jesus… Yeah, the creator of heaven, earth… Son of God and son of man. You know, the heaven or hell guy.” Part of Mrs. Calibri, wanting her Coke right about now, turned to her only window to see a few rays of sunlight dying down.

Eric said, “You seemed well versed. So why the-”

“Well something seems missing here. Maybe it’s the Constitution… Maybe I should be well versed in freedom of religion.”

Eric gave a bitter snarl and said, “Well for Chri-”

“Excuse me?” said a shocked teacher. Did I just hear hypocrite? she thought.

“I’m not a heathen. I have my own views. Only you cared not to ask,” Eric returned his thumbs into his pockets, hung his head down and then lifted his eyes to look deep into a concerned teacher.

Mrs. Calibri backed up a little and shook her head and said, “Wait a minute, excuse me?”

Eric confessed, “I’m not the nanny.”

“Didn’t say you were,” she said, and then repeated in her mind, I didn’t say you were.

“Nanny is Jesus woman… I took over the guardianship role… … That was when her mom and dad died in a car crash. God, that was almost three years ago.”

“I didn’t know. I am sorry. So I guess it’s the nanny we should martyr.” Excuse me for my cruelty the teacher could only think of her students.

“No… That’s the thing. Nanny is… well…”

Mrs. Calibri said, “Well versed? I’m sorry, no pun really, I just thought you should know.”

“What? Know what?”

“I have my own beliefs,” Mrs. Calibri winced a little, turned to Eric and said, “Something about pushing them onto others. That isn’t my way-”

“That isn’t her way either. Trust me, she’s gifted. I have seen it myself, I got beliefs too.”

“That’s funny… Funny you should say beliefs,” Mrs. Calibri sculpted a coy smile, something from her past, something clicked. But what was it? she thought.

“Beliefs run strong in our family,” said Eric. Mrs. Calibri could almost count his nervous mannerisms, and by the book explain them.

She said flatly, “Yeah, tell it to a second generation Wiccan.”

Eric smiled in interest. “Mother or father?”

“Both, of course. They found each other by fate,” Mrs. Calibri said.

“Listen to us talk, like a bunch of… of old heathens!” Eric said.

Mrs. Calibri said smartly, “We’re not going to stone her. Trust me, even if I could I wouldn’t. She brings color to my class. Everyone says so, especially the little Muslim students. Show and tell is always a treat.”

“Yeah that was why I, uh, why I came up here,” Eric said.

A look of omigosh and Mrs. Calibri said, “Oh let’s guess, for show and tell?”

“Yeah, I’m it,” Eric waited a long moment, blinked his eyes and centered them on April’s teacher.

She said, “You aren’t witnessing are you? And I was beginning to like you.”

“That’s just it. I witnessed her parent’s death. She doesn’t know really. But, umm, I guess there is more to it. I died that day. Tried to be the best guardian I could. She looks up to me. It would break her heart to know how I feel about her Jesus.”

“Wait a minute. She thinks you are a Christian?” Mrs. Calibri almost coughed on what she just heard and said, “This just keeps getting better.”

“She knows I believe in God, let’s just keep it that way. But she wants to show and tell me. You see, I’m a scientist. Or so I told her.”

“Oh this is good. And she believes this? So what kind of scientist, Mr. Knowles?”

Eric leaned over and whispered into her ear, “A giantist.”

“A what?” Mrs. Calibri needed more information.

“A giantist.” Finally a vote of confidence in Eric, who leaned into the part again and whispered, “I could tell you more, but I’d have to kill you.”

“This is really good.”

“Trust me… For show and tell I’m it.” Eric said this and a deviant look arose in his twinkling eyes.

“Oh this is gonna be really good.”

Later...“This is my giantist Mr. Corey.”

“Hello everybody.”

“Hello Mr. Corey!”

“I am a giantist and I study long-legged peoples from the Sahara Desert! That is where African Aborigines make their dwellings.”

“?”

“I come from a long line of giants and even some of my ancestral lineage is still pinned toour family tree.”

“Did you kill them?”

“No, I slow roasted them first in Canola oil, whatever that is, and from their ashy remains canned them in jars where they wait to be eaten by the Arctic pigs of the South Pole.”

“And Mr. Knowles, did you go to school to be a giantist?”

“Actually, there is no school to become a giantist. You have to go online out of Phoenix, Arizona in order to get your associates, but I earned my Doctorate in Bismarck, Canada.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t get it? Which part?”

“The doctorate part… Seems too real.”

“Did I say doctorate? I meant PhD from Quebec, Canada…”

“You mean Bismarck.”

“Are you telling the story? Anyways, where was I?”

“Canada.”

“I studied many long hours as an apprentice learning the twenty dialects of the long-legged peoples. And after ten centuries of intense research I have returned with my findings. And I have come to conclude that I don’t know anything at all!”

“Well Mr. Knowles, I see why you told me you graduated top of your class!”

“I told you that? Oh I didn’t, did I?”

“Little Miss April, I am so glad you brought Mr. Eric to show and tell! Little Miss April? Miss April?”

“Here I am Mrs. Calibri! Scared you, didn’t I?”

“April, that is not funny! Not funny at all!”

“Don’t worry Mrs. Calibri, it’s just a joke she plays.”

“That is not funny! A joke is funny, this is not funny! Not funny!”

“You are right Mrs. Calibri. It’s not funny! Jesus tells me you don’t want to dance with us.”

“Dance? Honey, I do, I do want to dance! But baby, you got to keep your feet on the ground!”

“I don’t want to Mrs. Calibri! Jesus says I am going to dance with Him real soon! He tells me that I am going to see my mommy and daddy real soon. Real soon!”

“Oh April I know you are hurt. I understand that now. But making up stories, that can hurt people more.”

“But I want to dance!” “He’s not real April! He won’t take you to your mom and dad, he won’t dance with you! Please stop it! Stop it right this instant!”

“Oh God…”

“Oh my God…”

“It’s too late.”

“He is real.”

“Jesus, please if it isn’t too late…”

“Oh God it is, it is… April... April where did you g-”

Three Minutes

Introduction: Three minutes. What could one do with three minutes?

I’ve seen everything under the sun with Preach. Me? I’m the black guy in the nurse’s gear with an understatement for a degree. Yeah, I could even have played ball; broke my leg though. Fate, I figured at the time. Now I walk with a limp and memories of greatness; moments really. None like Preach though. He’s seen better days. Heh, years even. I wonder if he still sees ‘em the way he talks an’ all. Heard stories that woulda turned me white. And the letters? They still come for him. Trickling in I guess but still constant though. I read them to him once and awhile when Alice ain’t looking for the missing pieces to her jigsaw that Pinny stole away in the glass fire alarm protector.

“Home!” Preacher is off to a great afternoon. His arms are raised through the open window beaming in the sun. Note to self: Get Preach underwear! Blue isn’t your color Preach. I made a tally on the cover sheet of my paperwork.

“Four hundred and seventy-five!” I muttered. Preach jumped up and then in pain his hand gripped his hip.

“Four hundred and seventy-five!” he repeated. And then he said again, “Four hundred and seventy-five! Four hundred and seventy-five! Four hundred and seventy-”

“That’s it, Preach!” I mentioned. If I didn’t speak, he’d go on forever. See that’s my game with him. He loves to talk about home. I just humor him. Home never seems to leave his mind. Once in awhile someone finds a way to him, but now that’s few and far. But that distant place never seems to come and if I could just find it for him, if he could just stop watching, I’d know he’d be at peace.

“Here today gone tomorrow!” the old man said. Just like your noggin’, huh preacher? I smiled. Preach used to go by Chris. Short for Christian maybe, but that was then. I was cocky and thought I knew everything then. Just out of school with a piece of paper worth $43,000, give or take a penny or two. I laughed at that old joke. Comin’ to a place like this you run into all kinds of characters. Some think they can fly. Others find themselves in the television, catatonic and wasting away. But when Preach pulls himself from a wheelchair your religious side goes fanatical. You start to wonder where that little man upstairs is. And when you even glimpse his master plan you just have to collect your thoughts. This is about the time I tally old man Preach’s sermon on home.

“Wha’?” I asked.

“Home?” he said. Always on cue. Behind us some game show is blaring loudly through foil and antennae produced static. Ol man Roland seems in tune, repeating word for word the broadcast. One time I gave him Monopoly money to see what he’d do. Later that day he tried to cash in a yellow slip of paper for a burrito from the Hispanic lady who prepared the food at noon. I turned to Preach.

“Questions don’t count, Preach!” I laughed about to erase a tally I had made when he jumped up again and again grabbing his hip. Never learn huh, buddy? I thought.

“Four hundred and seventy-six!” he said. Something in me giggled. Deep in my belly I felt a peace that seemed to permeate me like water in a sponge.

“Naw Preach, five!” I said. His eyes looked around as if I were in another room or far away and he was trying to find me. Eyes like cloudy marbles searched and searched. I placed my hand on my knee, looked down with a moment of greatness and watched a little old man laugh.

“Six, seven, eight! Can I get a amen!” he charged.

“Amen brotha!” I shouted.

“From anotha motha!” he said to me, and I looked over to him in interest. Like all to win some, huh Preach?

“Good one Preach,” I said. Yeah, I studied the Bible. A little confused though, I mean so many different books. I felt like I was in line at a buffet. All those Christians and Mormons and Jehovah whatevers, all jumbled my mind and seem to cloud the river. I mean after all Catholics said they were forgiven, but I met one devout clergymen who was faithful to his bottle he hid under the third pew. And that Holy Ghost thing that is in my friend Perry’s church, what was that all about? But Preach seemed faithful and something so calm about him. If he had not been real it would show, wouldn’t it?

“Jesus loves you!” Preach said. If I could have hidden my thoughts this little preacher would find them! Again a black to white moment. My thoughts were toward this Jesus fellow. It had started as a cliché’, an unbeliever’s scoffing, but watching my little friend in a sky blue gown scuffle… He seemed to still be in his right mind. Somehow an angel had watched. I felt a tingle inside.

“He did what Preach?”

“Died for you,” he said.

He is real. He is! This Jesus, He was God and Man somehow. I felt Him in my heart. It was like a burning sensation. I had to get up. I went to the little old man’s room and opened up the dresser drawer. Postcards from everywhere shifted as the drawer reached the end of the rail. It had eluded me so long. Now I could see. I could really see!

Paris, Austin, San Francisco, down under, everywhere! News clips of presidents visiting… Clips of cardinals, even books from authors signed to him. I felt an urgency in me. Something I had missed.

One minute left…

I knelt there in his room and closed my eyes. And for the first time I thought of those moments that seemed to be fate or coincidence or happenstance and I let out a wail of a cry until I was bitter and in turmoil. And I asked Him in…

The secret

Introduction: This is a painful story but a sobering of reality. My soul cracked from the pains of a mental illness known as schizophrenia, and this is recounted here. Even the most traumatizing parts are true. It is in essay form. This story is a wakeup call…

They tell me it is the year 2049. And do they think I believe them? Ha! It’s 2013. Just joking... This story is a little different and it is in the form of an essay. Yet it has some live action scenes and should do well next to home.

I typed this out in my head a thousand times. Each time it felt like the first. Add a dose of a completely unhealthy concept of time (I doubt if there is a word for it) and there, there is a wild, wild, wild ride that seems to have no end.

I’ve read it somewhere within that last book in the Bible there laid a blessing. It never occurred what that definition is for that word: Blessing. And I’ve read tons of the blessings when I was little. Too little, I guess. Heard some writers were endowed with blessings when they started reading books way before their time. I mean, I always had a gift—though that’s not really the right term. I should say a talent. A gift can get you in trouble, words like séances or telepathy or, well any word not distinctly in conjunction with God’s living word. You see, a seed has to be planted, as a thought, really. And it can have a remarkable potential. I heard it once said that a seed could be a tree. My guess was more speculative. When they first asked me that question it shot out of me like lightning. A seed was much, much more. Talk of streams of consciousness—ha! I had rivers. Rivers with more underlining currents than any other my age for what they… well, time escapes me. It seems that guilt well lubricated the hinges of my memories. I guess to some it’s a psychological mindset. Maybe so, maybe not. Head docs called it something. But this was my story to tell…

I could begin with the redeeming end of the story. I could listen to my heart and I could tell you what really happened. Or I just might let my rivers flow. Those psychological clichés that refer to my endless consistency of thoughts. They never made a pill for that. Spiritually it could be as they say: rebellion, unforgiveness, resentment… deeply rooted things we all have. Yet some receive the privilege of winning roles as other personalities in little rooms with those padded walls (however far from the truth those walls and that room were rarely used where I nested). Maybe that is an overstatement. I never carried it that far, but I had, let’s just say, I had traveled.

What do you want to do through me?

I remember once asking my Heavenly Father what He meant when He told me I was finite. A mind can go to depths that may seem hell-like. A crack as fine as a line can make all the difference. Reality may to some be a perception. Our little antennae in our head receiving signals and transferring them to colors and sounds, tastes and things like that. I don’t know can be the most honest and forgiving term to use in my life. Had I said it earlier, it may have given my mind peace. As of the moment my dad had been staring from just outside the door for some time now. Slowly he made his way in.

“Are you going or not?” my dad challenged. Was it really time? I thought. Surely it wasn’t scriptural. Immediately my mind hatched a memory, one of my dad hiding beneath the baby grand in our little home as I searched everywhere for him. He’s coming back and I must be ready!

Again he repeated, “Or not?”

I peered through uncertain eyes. I had caught the latter end of his words. What, do I have a choice? I thought. And then I muttered, “Any moment now.” I looked around. I turned away from him in the hall, a hall lit by those fluorescent lights that flickered before they died.

“Yeah, just a minute,” I said. I nodded again and insecurely grabbed my left shoulder, a signal only a father could detect.

“We have to leave,” he said.

I wasn’t stalling, I was waiting. Hearing him say that made me flinch and my mind felt another trigger.

Yeah, I said in my mind. Yeah. I forgot he wasn’t in there. Then turning to him I said, “Yeah, Pop. I’m… uh … yeah.”

His eyes seemed to be hurt, I wondered, lost in watery tears, just like the first time this had happened. Back then my momma cried too, inside though, but I knew…

I knew, through all that pain and all that stress on my heart and mind, my spirit still could, shall we say, receive calls. Discernment went high and far in my family.

“Come on Son,” he said. “It’s time.” For once I caught his delusions. Did he believe too? This was the secret our family carried. We never talked about it; it was as light as a spider’s web and twice as eerie. We weren’t asleep like the others. I think if we were asleep maybe everything would be different. The trial sometimes would squeeze a whisper of a prayer out of my mother. Just to hear His Name gave me comfort.

“Not even Jesus,” I whispered, and then catching the little connections I had made to my prayers, I gasped. Don’t add… don’t add, I thought. I finished my mental script with not even Jesus knew the time of His return.

The Thine Will prayer presented itself… A prayer Baptist and Methodists and others prayed, yet it never dawned on me what that meant. Forgive me, I meant no condemning tone in that. I grew up with the idea His Word was God-breathed. I knew not to take it out of context, but I did know how to get a prayer answered. I grew up in a world where if my motives were pure, prayers weren’t just asked, but brought an expectancy that seemed almost of a childlike faith. Rare a prayer wasn’t answered… And added to that—arrogance could evolve. A zeal could be forged. Much more than a doctor could diagnose, I doubt a sticker and a name on my shirt could be me in one box.

But my list of things God might look like was long and color coded. His Will was meat to some. Catholics drank His Blood, while others washed in it. Languages called angel’s tongue could bellow out and save folk. And if it didn’t, if we didn’t sing praises somewhere on this green earth, a rock would cry out. Yet the greatest of these: Love. The very same gift we lost in all those translations.

People came to God in their own understanding of how He is… Some get revelation. Some get wisdom. But in us all (I came to see) were little defects. That faulty human DNA strand we all carried. I felt like it was the link between the unseen and the seen.

My mind went like an abacus, shifting like a genius in a wheelchair. This had been my fifth trip. Trip might not be the PR, but it fit like a puzzle. Searching the room little coincidences looked more like divine conversations to a lost and dying world. I was determined to break this code. I got mad at the devil for all the bad things that had happened since I was blessed.

“This has got to stop, Dad,” I said. Still my dad waited. And the moments had passed like minutes. The hall seemed to get smaller and I was getting dizzy, like something out of an old Hitchcock flick. The look in my dad burned into me like exposed film. And like film, a dark time was needed to reveal the hidden.

“Momma’s in the car,” he said. Already a day must have passed in eternity. Already a day had passed in my mind. It is difficult to say, I really am speaking for my own comfort.

“Just a moment...” Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble. I thought. Madonna… I prayed for her (I always did) and something in me lit like a candle. Madonna...

“Madonna,” I said. My dad through his hands up and turned around to hide his despair.

“For the lova G—” my dad gave up.

“Don’t preach!” I completed.

We didn’t leave. But my dad did. To the house he went with me to unlace my shoestrings and to hand over my 34” belt as well. Partly, because of the comfort and security (I had always felt safe) this could easily be my home. After all, the nurses were like moms, the techs dads. Well, more like wardens. I gave a cruel smile as I watched them. The nurses, acting like they weren’t watching, stamped their little yellow and white forms. They stayed in their little fish tank between the east and west wing and to prove I was coherent I could sense a clarity where they pushed their pencils and the torment where I was. As if the spiritual realm knew where it could go or not go.

I have been in a hospital. The very idea of the hospital doesn’t give in to my ambitions but gives it more fire. I believed God could do anything and the reality as I witnessed it from where I stood was subject to change. My pain was not felt. I rested in a little twin size with a paper thin blanket and a white sheet that is washed daily. A little cupboard that held a few books that I never finished and a pencil (contraband) and some pet projects that have kept me busy.

Immediately, I was thrust into a room and told that the year was 2713.

My world had its own rules. I fished out a marker (red and washable) and scrawled on the inside of a Yatzee dice game box.

I wrote: to the pain.

To the pain. Not the type that one can feel. No, that remorselessness and religiosity of mental tasks we overlook, kind of like the equivalent of running a stop sign; but doing it over and over and over. Imagine an engine running without oil. Something only the lost could get. And to those found it could only be observed through books and maybe even that would be like watching an old film without color, without dimension, without the smaller lesser felt things we all could take for granted.

I had always been a perfectionist: Probably not seen on this side of the written story. But I paid careful attention to details. It was the little things and those I tallied in my mind. Not like a photographic thought, more like an accountant of reality. The first time the symptoms hit it could be like one hearing from God to almost as severe as little as an iron speaking. The chirping of a woodpecker to one could be a conversation with a dead loved one to another.

No man knew the day nor the hour. This was a piece of a puzzle. All scriptures were puzzle pieces that always fit together. Always, but it took faith and patience to recognize their place. I fished that scripture over and over in my mind, pushing it around, the pieces my thoughts had carried from all those older passed puzzles: Scriptures that pushed me to do all things through Him. But the cage of reality seemed invisible, my thoughts spread out through space; thoughts that crashed against the invisible cage and left little imprints like footsteps in the sand of peace.

For all I knew I had all the time in the world. A day was as a thousand years. And a thousand years like ten thousand. How was I to finish my purpose in here? And if in here I had to be, then that rough reality, those bars that seemed to bend in my mind but doubtfully remained stoic to my faith, never shed light on how my impossible wasso impossible!

When reality hit, it hit hard. Those bars suddenly announced their presence and if I was in the restroom or walking in ‘L’s on the linoleum tiles or even sitting beside the few windows in the sun. It was like a smack in the face. A mind as beautiful as mine may buckle under any given weight. Pressure revealed itself as a lingering aroma or a sensation of pain where none was before. To the pain; a word taken for granted as much as a reality lost had turned extinct.

Six am came quickly, with small jokes on how the Ambien worked well despite me sleepwalking, a common side effect to such a little dozing pill. I wondered why they had woke me so early to change my sleeping quarters. It was time for blood work. And drowsy as I was, my blood still ran red. The sun wasn’t even up. I pulled my sweater back over the band-aid and went back into my coma until 9 am. If read well, that coma thing was an attempt at humor, not a take at my reality. This was the routine and the routine was just as robotic as before. Little routines gave me a cage I could see.

The pain of reality versus my reality was this. I had heard as a child the rumors of wars. They called me a prodigy’s kid. Whatever... As a child I was at the feasting table with the King of Kings when I should have been enjoying Similac or those little glass jars of carrots and green bean concoctions. The supernatural was to me, well, only natural. Scripture was God-breathed. Never had I added nor taken away from it. And there was always the question of the blessing. The reader of that book shall be blessed.

That blessing rippled into my life around the same time that curse of schizophrenia awoke. One moment I was an Elijah, the next the feared enemy of the church. Dare I say the antichrist? It was never a dull day, trust me.

The sanity of rules and scripture applied well. The puzzles almost fit. Almost was something I could neither deny nor accept. Imagine a mind working to find a blur on a razor’s edge. Maybe I’d dream a little but go off I wouldn’t, keeping my astonished thoughts and epiphanies to myself, almost catatonic like. It lodged in me, a fear as small as a grain of sand and yet twice as burdensome. But little did I know such grains manifest into great feats in their own time and the tests of time into beautiful pearls. My family was unaware of the potential danger I was to myself.

The boxes of the old prophetic magazines somehow found their way down from the attic and alongside the halls of my hApril little home. I never looked into them. To me fear was a motivator or it could be a sin. I was also afraid to die. It hurt to hear birds speak. It hurt to keep people from knowing my madness of sanity; where everything had a double meaning, where even the simplicity of life was overanalyzed. I doubted. And the doubt was the real pain. Most people found comfort in the footprints in the sand. I needed a Jesus with flesh.

That’s when He spoke.

I’m coming to meet you.

My diagnosis doesn’t allow for auditory hallucinations, I thought back.

Nothing.

Didn’t you hear me? I asked myself.

Nothing again and then after a moment it said nothing again.

That day when Mom came during visiting hours I told her that Jesus was going to come and see me.

Honestly, I had forgotten her reaction.

There were plenty of rooms in the small hospital each with different levels of sanity. It could have been worse, I thought. Rumors of State, being much cheaper than this private one (here aspirin cost four dollars a pill; much too costly to try overdose), compared worse and the stories that bled from there kept me in place. Little knife-like threats could have brought anyone in check.

I surveyed my surroundings: The little bald man who constantly referred to coffee as his vitamin C.

“Where’s my vitamin C?” he’d ask.

It broke my heart to see him convulse back and forth, screaming in his mind (his type always did) while muttering curses and bitterly writhing about. His roommate, in complete fear, asked repeatedly to be moved elsewhere. He had been mentioning something about axes and violent attacks on people who got too close to the ‘vitamin C man.’

I wanted to pray for him, I wanted to heal him. People in such places may externally look rather intimidating. Walking an invisible line, said patient B (I’m not too imposing about him, I still felt he could be an exception), patrolled the area in my side of the wing and rarely changed his clothes. He seemed rather stoic. I would watch him from a distance and sometimes I’d walk alongside him and only then did he realize his need for attention. Much like an empty pot being filled with something, yet having not known it was empty.

Then there was catatonic man who couldn’t get enough of the TV. Even though it was off, he just stared at the little gray screen like a statue. He only moved to eat. Catatonic man never gave vitamin C man any trouble. And when patient B stepped in front of catatonic man, catatonic man stayed catatonic.

Madonna stepped into my life then too. I called her that because she was pure: Bipolar, but pure inside with a good heart. Much about her is too touching to write. She carried a list of stories that she would highlight different words on. A beautiful soul with a grasp on something… She revered the supernatural and she relished it, but from a different angle than me. Once she questioned why bad things happened to her on Easter… “Every Easter,” she had said.

I could have told her if she ate Jesus’ body and did it the wrong way she would be damned. But I ended up just telling her she was unlucky. Madonna always smiled. She was curious about the Jesus I knew but only told me I was a good writer like herself. I thought about how I used to witness to people and I thought how cruel my witness had been. It had been without love. It had been black and white and yet opaque and not transparent. I’d think about the pain that I found in my hollow witness. And I would compare it to the pain that put me here.

And still no Jesus…

Maybe He forgot.

I kept to myself mostly, enjoying a little outside excursion to the cafeteria while the others smoked their cancer sticks to curve their nicotine fits. The outside pavement carried scores of graffiti with erasable chalk. It was sunny, but to the overmedicated it may just be another day having no comprehension of what a sun was. Okay, that seemed too unbelievable. But it happened to me once, so I know it can happen.

Planes flew above. Being close to an airport, they would give a jolt as we heard them land. And there was always that patch of grass that my parents paid for that we were never allowed to get on. I hated that rule probably more than anyone else there. I was a bona fide grass walker. Vitamin C man walked well, patient B having no tiles to step through was relieved of his mental torture (however, the cafeteria welcomed him with an abundance of tiles). Catatonic man wore a yellow wrist band that deprived him of outside privileges. Besides, there was no TV outside, so how could he be entertained?

The cafeteria was not mundane on the food selection. I could dispense four quarters and get a cold cola or I could have free refills of sweet raspberry tea alongside the chicken breast and mashed potatoes. Sitting beside me Madonna held light talks that made me smile. Her bitterness to my Jesus was slowly corroding and afterwards she asked if I wanted a smoke.

And still no Jesus…

Visiting hours were after seven. Momma brought a sandwich wrap and a cola. She didn’t ask me about Jesus, although normally I would say something. Figments of my imagination did not just appear. I figured if Jesus was to arrive, then maybe Momma would be there. She was a Jesus to me. Maybe that was what I heard: that a Jesus with flesh was to come. Would that count as a second coming? Being able to deny that, I refused to not say I hadn’t a clue. Of course others had seen Him, so maybe it was more like another coming. I laughed at the thought.

Being afraid is something people tell me is a mindset, which can be prayed over and rebuked, which can be cancelled like a bad check, which some people can simply break free from. I’ve lived with fear all my life. It had become something I rarely discussed that changed my perspectives from vibrant colors to off whites and less vivid yellows. Fear seemed like a chore to me now as burdensome as stairs to an overweight person.

And still…

Small dreams die hard. It had been a week since the promise of His return. Fortunately I was told my roommate was going home. Bao. My little friend from Vietnam who laced his lips with those cancer sticks. He enjoyed talking about my Jesus along with the innovative idea of building a flying car. He watched me for a while, still rather coherent and gave accolades about me in the AA meetings we accidentally stepped into (the bipolar meetings were on Tuesdays and today was Thursday). I lead him in the sinner’s prayer and in perfect Vietnamese he accepted Jesus into his heart. Funny thing is, immediately after praying, he told me Jesus wanted him to stop smoking. Just a moment after accepting, he threw his cigarettes down. The next day he picked it up again.

But did God tell him? I imagined Jesus in fluent Vietnamese touching his life asking him to lay down cigarettes. And then…

We played kickball on the illegal grass while vitamin C man made his rounds along the borders of field on the concrete sidewalk. Madonna girl found a liking to my stories and in just a few days we were holding hands. I figured she would forget me and my rejection would just be one number on her list. But for now I was content and still He hadn’t come. Neither had my dad, whom I knew couldn’t take the pain.

I didn’t know if Jesus was waiting on me or if He had changed His mind (He’s never done that to my recollection as of yet). All the colors in my head made swirls. I didn’t want to meet him because I heard somewhere that there was a blessing for not seeing Him.

All sorts of new friends were coming out of the woodwork; except catatonic man. Someone had snuck in between his nap time and lunch and put on a movie. The nicking public had monopolized the gazebo about the same time someone stole the red rubber kickball from the gym. It was like a minor redemption.

It had been my third week and still Jesus had not come. But there was a trickle of something. A scripture, as sure as day that the Lord, man and God, could feel my pain. I looked for it but still to no avail. New Age man continued to pester me. I called him that because he always left some ambience of New Age music I guess to play while puzzle lady worked and worked and worked on her puzzles. I knew his spirit could receive calls because I could tell he could tell something was different about me. I called him the New Age devil and he still wouldn’t leave me alone. I still remember him.

The blessing.

Introduction: There is not a day I go about looking above for the clouds to part. I can’t stand watching the news. Not because of its ‘depressingness,’ but because of its reality. Too many puzzles for me; and the scary thing is I see how they fit. Finally Jesus came. And he looked just like they said he would.

He had brown hair. Floppy like, and was tall with a beard. He seemed around His thirties. And for the first day I met him he said nothing to me, because He was catatonic. He laid in bed, a white sheet over Him with his hands crossed over His chest. I got the joke. And so did everyone. One by one people would steal a look at the Catatonic Jesus. Bao nearly worshipped Him. Madonna, unable to come to my room (rules and more rules) heard stories. Vitamin C man just asked for more coffee, but when Catatonic Jesus walked (rather slow, like a wedding procedure down the aisle) he even said nothing. A rumor went that Jesus had come.

But Jesus had a dad, a completely stern dad who brought chocolate cakes to lure Him from the room. It would take Jesus fifteen minutes to walk forty feet. I imagined the war in His mind. And then I thought to myself, He had come. He seemed to bare my pain. As if my running those mental stop signs was enough, I thought of Jesus right there with me. I thought of Him thinking right there alongside me battling every blow of fear, standing and falling with me. I should have told everyone who He was. A pain went into His mind like the thorns of His crown.

Catatonic Jesus wept inside. I couldn’t tell that through any spiritual discernment. It was evident. I wish I could lay in front of that man a mirror to let him see the pain in him. I knew he couldn’t see it. Others could see it but we couldn’t. My thoughts of the rapture grew stronger since then: My loved ones appearing before me in single file to pray for until they were brought to salvation.

A. D.

The puzzle pieces make sense now. Some pieces don’t fit because there are other puzzles. There are things these puzzles are for. Hope... Comfort… I see the blessing of the book now. Knowing that everything is known and He can be trusted. The great act that lies before me is unraveled slowly moment by moment. My mind knows and yet it doesn’t. This is just an account from a child of God. Sometimes when I look back, and that I do rarely, I wonder, the reasons for my mental illness can prove of a God more loving by the look in my eyes then and now. Head docs still wonder if I’m in the same time zone as they. I wonder about their soul. I wonder about the pains that God put in them to converse through to a reality of Him. I don’t know. I wonder but I don’t know.

My thoughts turned to my lost loved ones. The ones I have to look Jesus in the eye to tell them of my Friend. I know I will weep. It is the urgency in me, which even when my mind’s gears continued I had always the grace to stand up mentally and say, “He’s near.” Watch, pray—those two words gripping me with a sense of a spiritual responsibility. And a true account can save souls. But my lost loved ones have their own lost loved ones.

“You ready Son?”

“Is it time?”

“Yes Child. Bring them all home.”

Home...

Introduction: We all dream of home when our days grow long and weary. We think of our home when our plow burns calluses into our souls and we work until the emotions are left dry. Home is but a thought away. Away even as time slips past as a vapor. And then, along the way, people seem to find themselves looking at our hope and maybe they begin to hope as well.

“Home,” smiled the little old man in his steely little wheelchair. The word rolled off his lips like nectar and a smile, coarse from age, followed a low grumbling within him. No one knew but this was how he laughed: eyes ever wandering, never finding, but yet still looking. Around him, a room empty almost, save for a nurse whose rounds never ended nor any pay increase. But this slipped past Chris, the man in the wheelchair, like sand in an hourglass. He was in the living room and there was a TV and the TV was on. Something short of the stories and a few game shows that barely stayed on the air. He yawned. It was about that time to eat. The nurse, Sammy, knew too. But the old man drooped over the side of his rest arms to his left like a weeping willow. Something caught his eye. A silver nickel: one out of his reach, shiny and bright and very enticing. His arm collapsed over the side, straining to acquire the treasure. Sammy pretended to not see Chris’s hand much like a crane under a child’s control, slipped to and fro, missing its target. Chris was persistent, however, his eyes wide in wonder; a child’s wonder, and a small grieved smile. Until he gave up (was it five minutes or twenty?) and he scuffled his feet across the tarnished off-white linoleum tile pulling his confinement along with him. At this stage, his plaid boxers partially revealed beneath the slit of a sky blue gown fell to the nurse’s awareness so much they gave up covering them, leaving in him a disgraceful shape, especially for a once and again preacher like Chris.

The brightness of the sun invaded the west wing of Cypress Nursing Home bringing to many its hApril warmth. But the little old man with a smile and two hands crushed with arthritis seemed to dwell in empty darkness under his own little rules, steward of an ever crumbling empire.

This is the story of the preacher Chris. Chris, the evangelist now, became Chris the forgotten old dream. What he once was never died. What he became was legend. His blue eyes looked with an amazing wonder, always finding something new in the walls that once grounded his mind. His head lured forward like a crooning sea turtle. It swayed like branches in the wind back and forth slowly and quietly.

The local paper could always find interest in the community about ol’ man Chris. His story, once read about in the worlds around him, now seemed distant. They had expected him to stop walking and it happened. They prepared for his hands and it happened. The last words and final conversations were predicted as well. Almost all, but that one word: Home, always with a smile, a twinkle of nostalgia and sometimes… sometimes… a giggle. But he didn’t care and he continued to take on the squares of the yellowing floor skidding marks and all only doing it inch by inch.

He was oblivious to Mr. Charles and his great granddaughter’s hula hoop that brought so much curiosity to everyone (mainly because he thought its protective circle would somehow be breached). No matter how persistent and yet unwearyingly he tried, yet still could not hula. Outside the sanity realm of his force field he hardly moved. Within it, he was an active child jerking his body more than the hula, crying out saying, “Look at me! Look at me!” His great grandchildren to the other elderly were the only time they saw little feet and little hands with the wonder most lost; most, but not Chris the preacher.

Tia Sarah continued to paint outside the box: Cleverly, actually on everything. Her choice of colors always yellows and clashing reds and purples which brought her a fan club of everyone but the little old evangelist who inched ahead calling for home while she worked effortlessly. She seemed quite aware of her surroundings.

Michael’s son hardly came to see him, always at work or spending time overseas. These fits of torment bore heavily on this elderly one who simply refused to not stop staring out the window for his prodigal. And still his eyes seemed to catch everything but the few uneventful years that turned into a decade. He was alone: even when others were around, he continued just to sit and stare.

Wendy-lady, as she had been called, seemed to grow more childlike and innocent. She would stare at the walls, talking endlessly, in gibberish and in small forms of comprehension. She always wore too much make-up, priding herself in her olden days not as much in her golden ones. Wendy-lady would watch the little preacher in his wheelchair whom she considered quite a gentleman. However, the twinkle in her eyes toward him seemed naturally missed. Sometimes she would whisper her desire by somehow perfecting her made-up face, yet to no avail. Other times she passed him by acting as if she didn’t see him, yet rarely did he respond, and when he did it was always with one word…

“Home!” this time slightly louder seemingly pricked the ears of the black nurse who was attempting to read a book of poetry by Emily Dickenson. Patiently he said, “Okay Preach, what’s today’s sermon?” The black nurse closed his book softly, placed it on to the dismal gray banister and then looked up to the sitting and breathing sermon. The walls elegantly painted antique green and yellowing whites after these years only soured the atmosphere. He picked up a little notepad and turned an eye to the digital clock. Under his breath the nurse muttered, “Almost that time.” On that last word, the little old man seemed to awaken and he turned to Sammy, the black nurse.

“Oh…” Sammy had forgotten how sensitive his little patient was. Jesus, he’s still fighting! The nurse thought to himself. And then, with a little grin, the little old man said, “No one!”

“Oh God…!” Sammy almost killed himself as he hurdled over those cheap plastic chairs toward the little old man who sat in a wheelchair, undefeated.

“Knows…!” Again another word. All the while Sammy cursed in awe, steadied himself erect and scribbled on his pad and then again out loud this time, “Jesus!”

It brought a smile to the little man and his innocent cerulean eyes panned the room. He called out, “Home?” His turtle-like neck stretched out and about. He was anxious. Something seemed to grab his attention. Something, but what? thought Wendy-lady who acted like she wasn’t in the room.

It was a miracle to see him still highly functioning for so long.

“Home,” he wheezed this time with a little cough, a gurgle of spittle and then another, authentic smile and twinkle. It was partly a mischievous look, and partly angelic. In the early days, his conversations were rich with color. He amused the patients with his stories, his candor, yet sometimes a struggle could be seen. His eyes drifted and moments of doubt were all that was visible. Sometimes people from all over the nation would surprise him with their stories. The letters, once daily, now trickled in like a worn faucet. One of how he had helped someone dear to them or even themselves, another, of a brother whom after years of addictions finally was delivered, others of children found after abductions, incidents he seemed to pray for openly. Some people said they were just a little bit of home; small miracles that brought heaven a bit closer. Decades later, the visits were less common, until some days he would sit in his wheelchair like an aged statue and stare away into the corner between the burley fuzzy couch and the domino table.

“I got you Preach,” said Sammy. He lifted up Preach by the armpits and positioned him into his wheelchair. “Bet’cha you could use a seatbelt, huh, speed racer!” Sammy mused. He thought to himself, Man, almost just a bag a’ bones left, huh Preach? Preach seemed to stare through his helper and into the fallen ceiling tile. His frail fingers pointed through the roof almost like an oracle, “There!”

Sammy laughed; he had heard many of the stories from before about Preach… He said, “Yeah Preach, we know, we know, the ceiling tiles. But it’s safe though, we promise to get those things fixed…” Sammy almost was tempted to look, to see what Preach was pointing at. Still preachin’ huh? he thought.

What people didn’t know about Preach, that if they did, they would look back into his twinkling eyes and wonder. It was like he still was a witness!

Then, something happened. Immediately the nurse, Sammy, drew back as if something seemed to cradle him away from the old man. And Preach leapt from his confinement and began a quick shuffle toward the kitchen door. Sammy nearly had a heart attack! Calling his Savior more in awe than in reverence, the black nurse hurriedly stumbled over Preach’s chair, causing it to slide into the wall leaving merciless skid marks on the linoleum. With a curse beneath his breath he tumbled belly first again into the chair, all the while Preach kept calling out, “Wee! Wee! Wee!”… Sliding his blue foot warmers quietly forward.

And then he marched forward, head raised in a form of a cadence slightly as well as a scuffle, through the spackled and over primed doorway leading to the kitchen and into an aroma of leftover pastas, sauces and garlic bread. The two Hispanic cooks who could not attempt even a broken English, but effortlessly spoke horrible words that Preach gave no account to, then threw up their hands in half gibberish and whirled about in plaid and striped cloth dresses spraying water from the faucet all over the floor. One ran out to Sammy, the other cried, “Mama mia!” and surrendered through the other door chasing down the halls and almost colliding with Mr. Charles and his hula force field.

But back to the kitchen: It was here where the off-white tile was not a veteran to wheelchair wheels or cheap rubber soles, but contested of a manicured past. It was beautiful having the sun’s barred light to still time overlooking between the swaying pure white curtains and the dirty window’s panes blurring all that entered. It was almost, heavenly. So heavenly that the elderly would bask in it, feeling its warmth and consoled by its rays. But not always in the kitchen (this area was off limits, even though it had always taken Miss Nibben’s curiosity, as well as oversized nurses, to pull her away) as much as the light from beyond the grizzly brown and fuzzy blankets that would sometimes fall from over the curtains. Why blankets? thought Sammy once, who hadn’t majored in interior design, but in common sense. Why not spend some of the good earned money on some cheap sheets, but blankets?

Running his hand through what was left of his hair, Preach managed to make it over to the kitchen island and into a bowl of lukewarm rice. And then with a fire his accolade summoned in him a strength as he said once more, “Home!” Plunging his withered fingers into chalky white rice seemed a trial in itself, as a grimace overtook him in pain. He looked like he was taking in a third degree burn. He brought the rice to his mouth and bit down hard, rubbing his gums over and across his newfound jewels.

Sammy watched. He leaned against the trim of the entryway. That dry rice was not alone. Beside him was the young and yet curious nurse Amanda. She was a short blonde, blue eyes type who seemed wider than a child right now and possessing an old-fashioned sense to her. She watched as from a distance Preach seemed oblivious to her and Sammy caving his mouth with as much of that dry rice as he could. Then as if he had always known he turned his head in their direction and gave a smile, with two cheeks exploding outward and a gurgle of his favorite place, “Home!”

“Call his kids,” Amanda managed to say as she chewed on the eraser end of a dull pencil.

It took three days for Walter Jenkins to arrive with his wife of thirty-seven years, whose name was Cheryl, at Cypress Creek Nursing Home to talk about his father. His reluctance was uncanny. With one hand he shoved through the mahogany and glass door and with the other he held his wife delicately. Only, he went in first.

“Papa!” he called down the halls, with a hesitant stutter and a muttering beneath his breath. His grip on his wife immediately lightened after a tug from him to her and a slight whimper from her to him ensued. She wore a plain dress without pride and hurried to stay in step with her other half all the while advising him, “Walter now, Walter please-”

“Cheryl, this is no time for wisdom. The ol’ man’s grip on reality is far past yours… If you want to join this hospital’s colorful array of thoughts to raise more money please, please do so by all means from inside the car thank you.” When Walter talked he seemed to breath out a streamline of consciousness with a quibble of sarcasm and also fear. Fear that his father was actually right. He was going home.

“If you died today,” the telecast was just as prophetic on a black and white screen as ever. Walter stood no higher than the coffee table, bib hanging slightly below his waist, a bottle held by its nipple squeezing out warm milk onto his tiny fingers. He staggered and rocked side to side in harmony with his father’s voice. Cocking his head he watched the black and white figure as the camera trained its focus on Chris who poetically moved. Walter did not know this. He was too young for preaching etiquette. Walter could only steady his mind on his father. Walter was home.

“Dadda!” an awed Walter exclaimed. The Lord spoke to his spirit. Yes, and he loves you! Little Walter dropped his bottle at that and placed his wet fingers against the television set, smearing his father’s face. His father, carrying himself well in his suit and tie, eloquently turned to say an anecdote and then paused, waiting for the stirring of the people.

“Da!” was all Walter said. However his father seemed oblivious. He looked down and then bent over, falling slightly, yet grabbing the edge of the oak grain coffee table as he reached anxiously for his bottle. His little hands slipped passed the nipple and planted themselves onto a burley brown rug. And then an epiphany: the rug seemed a perfect place to wipe his hands. But before his innocent crime he looked up to see Momma… His arms rose.

“Dad!?!” Walter, worried, called again… His shiny black shoes clapped down the hall hurriedly, behind him a wife followed dragging his arm a little. Panning his eyes he looked through each door opening unknowingly without apology and rather rudely. He was worn of any etiquette but polished in a brutal honesty. This he claimed his father had chiseled in him. The pure in heart shall see God. His mind resurfaced that thought like wet seaweed finding its way from the sea. To him there was a lot of wet seaweed. Pure. An urgency in that word bounced off his spirit. Pride cometh- Another thought and another cast down imagination.

“Dad!” he commanded and yet still with a tone of concern, the testing of his patience far from over. Memories, more seaweed and more seaweed… A wife behind him was failing to stay in step. She finally tugged hard enough against him for him to get the message. And he released her, still commanding his presence down the hall, but then suddenly there was an abrupt stop.

Walter’s wife finally caught up and said, “Oh dear God…”

Before them Christian Jenkins was standing and then he spoke, “Where’s Mama?”

Mama was a preacher: A fireball even when calm, and feisty red hot when mad. Oh, and Mama’s temper kept the house. It’s like her respect was hard earned to many but in plain view she would shout down her kids in a hot minute. She used to say she was born at night but not last night. Walter however was her favorite. This was hands down at any time. The other kids, his sisters and his brothers, they knew never to commit any sibling crimes in his sight. He was a snitch and he never took candy bribes even if it was from Margie, his oldest, most crafty and dearest of all sisters. Why did she love him most, because he was closest to Mama or more or less because he was said to be the preacher in the family? Walter’s first word was in a heavenly tongue. Margie caught him speaking while she watched him in his crib; his little hands had wrapped onto its top as he continued to pull and push until saying, “abba bba abba!” Margie was dead now. But this short story was a great find one day when her journal years later had surfaced while Mama was cleaning out her room after her funeral. There was a great pain in that child. Christian had not been home all the time and her signs of delusions had come swiftly. Walter took it hard.

“Yeah Dad, Mama couldn’t make it.” Walter wasn’t lying. And yet he wasn’t telling the truth. Chris seemed to just nod away, smiling.

“You promised!?” The war in his mind rather evident, Chris seemed like a broken record. And like a record his mind continued to turn. He said again, “You promised!?!”

“Yeah Dad, I know, I know. But looks like ya doing good. Walking… I hear you’re quite the gossip these days!”

Chris looked over his son’s shoulder at something and then back at nothing, always gazing, never really seeing. He cocked his head to one side, popping his neck, with a little grin and then with a grimace of discomfort. His hands were hurting. He raised them up before Walter’s face, stretching five withered fingers far as he could: a sigh of pain and then a sigh of comfort. “Home?” he mused, this time more of a question than a certainty. Yet Walter had not been around his father long enough to know the difference. He said, “Yeah, Dad, I promise we will take you home.” And then he added coyly, “We promise to take you home tomorrow!”

And that was when Preach awoke. Sitting slumped over on a wooden kitchen chair his eyes focused for one priceless moment on his son. And all twinkles of hope that before continued to simmer were dashed like water on already dying embers. And yet a mixture of emotions, like colors, bled through his face.

Preach grabbed his son’s hand, a strength that even then made Walter wince in pain. Preach said, “No, Son… No!” Walter’s eyes found Sammy. Sammy looked down at Preach’s hands. Preach’s hands relaxed a little and then he said again, “No one, Son!” Walter thought to himself, Mother of God, he’s got the grip of a young man!

Cheryl threw her hands up and praised the Lord. Preach in turn smiled wide and rocketed off his chair, slamming his bad knees onto the bottom of the kitchen table, with a laugh saying, “He lives! He lives! Can I get a amen-”

Sammy had a heart attack and made a mad dash to the nurse’s medicine room, which unfortunately was on the other wing, all the while muttering gibberish of unbelief. His quick thinking failed to register and again he slammed into Preach’s wheelchair (one which he purposely brought into the kitchen to show Preach’s son) toppling over it like a demolished building. One of the two Hispanic cooks still in the room proclaimed something about her mother, raised her hands and cackled a sweet laugh after that. Sammy regained his orientation just in time to hear Cheryl say, “His hands!”

Preach began to preach. An audience of a cook, a daughter-in-law, and son were awestruck because Preach wasn’t using words. His hands were whole. He stood erect. And he was praising God with them!

Sammy got back with a syringe. Preach turned to him and said, “No one!” then he raised his hands victoriously…

Walter was dumbstruck. It had been a week that he took off from his job at the insurance office. He had been up all night just staring at his father. He reflected on his father’s hands; flawless where once before large knots and crevices like canyons ran throughout. Preach lay there, snoring, on his bed of changed linen sheets in his uniformed sky blues and boxers still partially revealed. He was as still as a cot.

“Mama always saw somethin’ great in you,” Walter mumbled to himself, his hands in prayer formation just covering his lips. A mustache grazed his fingers, stubbles of whites, grays and reds. He was old inside and out. He was just plain old.

“You always spoke well of the man upstairs,” he said, a mixture of emotions kept below a stoic image, a face like a statue, but something beneath, almost volcanic, erupted. He looked at his dad and then back at the ground in Preach’s room. The walls were plastered with trophies of pictures where Preach had ministered. Afghanistan, Venezuela, a kaleidoscope of flags wrapped around pencil-thin poles. There were prayed-over handkerchiefs some of which seemed to glow to the trained eye. There, a shovel grit with mud stains leaned against the ol’ wooden bookcase of Preach’s collected books. It was the ground-breaking ceremony where Preach had inducted his last church’s cornerstone from deep within the Kansas City borderlines. There the former Soviet Union, even Israel was mentioned on his several corkboards… All this while Preach was sleeping…

“I heard the stories,” Walter sort of prayed. He went silent for a moment, swallowed his thought and then looked a hard look into his father. “But why?” Emerging resentment…

“I was there,” Chris interrupted. Walter turned, surprised. Chris turned his head away in deep sleep and then shortly after that he said, “You don’t remember…”

“Papa?” Walter exclaimed.

Walter was crying.

Preach had been asleep… Walter had found this time very healthy to soul-search. He looked over at the time, somewhere around two in the morning, he thought. The little alarm clock with the large letters read… three-thirteen. And there his eyes were about to turn in a compassionate gaze to his father when they fell on a little red book just off the dresser by the clock.

That book lay about the size of Walter’s hand. A book he had seen only a few times… A few times, but why had it…? His hand was about to, but before he could do anything, Preach shifted in his sleep, moaned lowly and grumpily. Walter as if caught slipped his hand back to himself. A child’s mind was still in him. And with that he ended his nightly vigil by tucking his head back into the soft padding of the rocking chair beside Cheryl… and his dad. His mind had shut down, but with one last look at the little red book…

“Walter! Your dad needs you!” Mama was proud of her young son (she had earlier caught him prancing on the stage behind the pulpit) and made sure that Papa Chris was proud too. Little Walter hobbled down the aisle toward his dad just as his dad placed a little red journal back into his pocket. A child, he rarely noticed things like that, but for some reason little thoughts danced like sugar sprites in his head (he had seen the little book once before, just before his hands received slaps for trying to wipe peanut butter off his tiny fingers) telling him stories of what might be in it. Walter would see this book only once in a while over several decades…

His hand flipped through the pages curiously. And what started as a simmer, an anger, rose within Walter as his father talked to the sunshine through an open window oblivious of all else. To Preach, a son who came once a month and a son who could have come more, it didn’t matter. He was waiting for something. Preach continued to look out the window. He said, “Home?”

There were letters, poems, pictures, crosses drawn throughout; sketches and other notes in margins and question marks and journaling. There were sermons and scriptures, prayers written, prayers answered with checks in little boxes besides the prayers written.

“This is what pulled you away from me, huh, Pop?” Walter’s pessimism mixed with resentment. “Now you leave me again.” Preach stood rocking back and forth, the back of his head to Walter, with one healed hand against the screen, the other healed hand running through wisps of gray hair. Walter read of presidents in the red journal. It spoke of healings. One had an ornate cross marking one page in particular. Walter moved it to the left page with his thumb. There in the column were several names… It read:

Atomic Bomb on Hiroshima… Not a form of retaliation. Pearl Harbor was known weeks before its manifestation. It was an experiment. Those in command paid dearly in God’s eyes. The moment that bomb fell I knew it. It was like I cried inside.

39th President… tumor in brain: Diagnosed secretly, called to the White House. Crises averted, 1st Lady grateful. Actually, very grateful!

Area 51… not a real place… But I’ve been there! No alien abductions. Saw a bunch of high-tech things. The sound barrier was nothing to the speed of these new ‘birds of prey.’ Asked to intercede for the Cold War… Admonished those in command of WMD’s (weapons of mass destruction) to take a moral introspection before any heavy deployment (even though I felt like my voice was too small)

Angels. Too classified to write… heeheehee…

Pope’s secret rendezvous proves he believes in healing. A remarkable man! Highly insightful, he understands the deeper things of God, working to change the Catholic Church by being an inner witness to those around him: Fully aware of the things unscriptural around him. Oh the Presence of God that emanated from him!

Benny’s Diner…Too beautiful to be told… What a story!

Walter was awestruck. It was like this person before him seemed a riddle with no answer. Preach smiled in his sleep. And Walter slowly put the little journal beside his father’s bed.

“More!” Chris awoke, stared toward the ceiling and then drifted away again. Walter jolted as if he had been seen naked by a grade school nun. His hand bumped the little glass jar he was sipping from and then milk invaded the journal. Walter cursed, then thought of Mom and then sponged the excess milk with his woolen plaid sleeve. He fidgeted over the liquid like his arm was under a seizer. And then Chris awoke and with a laugh heard round the corner, did another miracle leap out of bed and another shuffle out the door, oblivious of his son’ presence, his spilt milk, even the little journal.

The journal! Preach stopped… Something turned in his mind, like that of little working gears… Walter went still like a statue; the eyes of his father surveyed the area like spotlights. And then, one moment (or maybe three) the old preacher began his shuffle toward the door and then out to the living room and then passed the living room into Wendy-lady’s space and then finally a quiet march into the kitchen. Walter slowly picked up the red journal and then slipped it into his pocket.

Preach had found his eyes set on a dragonfly. Before Walter had tracked him down Preach reared back his hand from his new friend. His new dead friend… Walter found his dad just as the dragonfly flipped back over and flew away.

“Papa,” Walter turned his head away from the dragonfly and sat upon the white bricks outside under the white sun. He said again, “Papa!” Chris turned his head to his son in love and admiration without any detection of the buried pain of them both.

“I’ll fly away…” Chris sang, his hands following the dragonfly while in orchestration like rhythm. Walter. Preach’s eyes settled on his son.

“Walter!”

“Papa…”

“Walter.”

“Yes?”

“Momma found my red book…”

Walter smiled. Normally this would have doubled over any giant of a man, yet simple conversations came few and far between. This time Walter was poised.

He said, “What journal, Papa?”

Chris leaned over to his son and said, “The one you don’t think I have!” And then leaned away smiling and said, “You know, my red book!”

Before Walter could speak he readjusted himself and said coyly, “Mama has your red book?”

“No.” Preach turned to scratch his back, his good back at that, and without ease. He said, “Mama taught you not to lie!” Walter went red. Preach said, “Mama!”

“Yes, mamma!” Walter turned to see his wife, Cheryl edging ever so much closer. She said again, “Yes mamma!” There was a boldness, and yet an innocence lightly coating her voice. She said, “Momma lent the red book to young Walter!” Walter thought to himself, What on earth? Cheryl squeezed his hand and then pulled away, her touch as light as a feather. She hesitated, then looked onto Walter knowingly and said, “Here!” She pulled it from Walter’s coat pocket slowly and gave it back to him.

“Aahh!” It seemed like precious gold finally returned. Chris, Walter’s father, turned to him and whispered, “He’s on the move!”

Walter sparkled, “Who Papa, who!”

Preach turned, looked over his shoulder and then back over his son’s, and then, even softer, said, “Aslan! Aslan is on the move!”

Walter looked at his dad chuckling into his fresh hands. The dragonfly swirled around his new friend and then landed onto his outstretched fingers. He continued, “I’ll fly away!”

Cheryl, who had been keeping mostly to herself (she was a good listener, that’s what drew Walter to her in the first place) delicately brought her hand onto her bedazzled husband. He winced. She withdrew. Chris turned. The dragonfly flitted past; all this in a moment. All while the sacred hymn turned in the ever turning mind of the lost and found preacher. And then, as if intentionally, the little red book slipped from Chris’ fingers like water and it landed beside a little boy in a man named Walter. A curious flame ignited in him as the book randomly opened by his feet. And something caught his eye…

“Walter!” An angry Momma cried and little Walter nearly flipped over the hamper, passed his father who was always reading or writing or both (he had only been home a few days and already he was late for another trip far and away) and rounding the corner beside Margie and then leaving a blur of his other siblings until his momma in the kitchen came to full view! Walter panted; fearful of his momma’s fuse (it always seemed shy of her patience), he met her just as she exploded, “Little man! Did you give CeCe that red popsicle?” Before he could answer, Momma shut the door to the fridge to find little CeCe indulging on the last of a bright red pop with its stains crawling down a just as bright pink (and now red) little tee. She smiled in baby talk and out from behind his studies Chris shouted, “Nothing but the blood of Jesus!” CeCe cooed. Margie walked in just as Walter was crying out to God, not from worship but from the metal edge of a belt… Walter, she thought and Margie prayed. Momma always loved Walter, but she was never afraid to rear him right. Right in his rear!

CeCe, the angel, now grown up, appeared with Thomas her older brother (but much older than Walter) at the entrance to the Cypress Creek Nursing Home. She carried the wonder of a child as she smiled at her standing father: Her walking father, a loving embrace and a jewel from Chris saying, “CeCe?”

An eye of astonishment toward Walter and Cheryl and she said, “Papa? My, you’re taller than you used to be!” Cheryl smiled and somehow found a hand from her husband and squeezed it tight. CeCe tried to ask, but Walter caught her before she could speak and shook his head. She said, “Still, it still is divine!”

“Mamma?” Chris disappeared again. Like they rehearsed, the family followed suit as usual. Thomas said, “Oh Momma? She said she was going to be here later tomorrow!”

Chris scratched his head and mumbled, “Always tomorrow… She shouldn’t procrastinate so much… One day I won’t be here and who would have to take care of His work?” There was a shared smile when Papa seemed to make a breakthrough. Walter looked to his younger brother and sister and said, “I have something to show you…”

CeCe peered with huge eyes over the red book’s browning pages. “Jeez!” was all she could say.

“You mean to tell me,” Thomas looked over his sister’s shoulder, “that Watergate was really…”

“Jeez, Tom, give a sis some space! Oh look at this! Cher, Papa Chris saw an angel the same time Walter was in Momma’s tum tum! Those are his exact words! Tum tum!”

“Oh, and look right here: Chris knew Momma would be his wife three years before they ever met!” Cheryl said as she skimmed the book.

“Lemme see! Lemme see!” CeCe pulled back the red journal like it was always hers and someone had just snatched it from her, “Benny’s, Benny’s, why’s that so… Anyways, look here guys look here! Wait… It can’t be…”

“Ce, you’re always blowing things out. Of… Proportio- Is that?” Thomas looked at his watch, “That date...”

Cheryl turned to Thomas, Thomas to CeCe and CeCe to Walter… Walter snapped the book shut in front of CeCe immediately. He said, “Hey Sammy!”

The black nurse, highly aware of his timing said, “Chow time guys. You can stay, but not much longer.”

His eyes looked down to CeCe to watch a conniving look be returned back to him and she said, “Yeah?” The black nurse smiled at them and grimaced inwardly also. He left and Chris’ family all shoveled out their phones and watches.

“It is today’s date,” said CeCe as her fingers coursed the line like she was reading Braille. She read, “My loved ones. By this date my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has promised me of all your salvations.”

CeCe turned to Walter and said, “But we-”

“Keep reading!” Cheryl said.

Chris was chasing a dragonfly a stone’s throw away. He sang poetically, “I’ll fly away! I’ll fly away.”

Thomas continued, “This and a second promise. A promise to watch and pray…

Wait a minute. Wha’s Papa always saying?”

“He just mumbles about going home.” The family looked to their lost father who only moments before had no hands. Who moments before could not walk. And so well timed the little old preacher shouted, “No one knows!”

“But we are all saved!” CeCe finished. She said, “We all were baptized. We’ve all served in the church. We’ve all said the sinner’s prayer! But how? How?”

Walter looked more lost for a moment than even his own father…

“Walter? Show Papa your new certificate!” Momma shone as little Walter held the little piece of paper up to a very distant father. In his eyes something was wrong. Something did not click. Little Walter had seen Johnny’s dad and mom all summer together. Yet his own father seemed less seasonal than old Santa Clause. He lifted up the paper to his dad (he rarely called him “Dad”) and then Chris smiled back saying, “Do I have to sign this?” Walter said nothing. But in his mind a little lie seemed to burrow itself… Why? Why believe?

“Walter, I’m so proud of my little preacher!” Momma claimed. Walter said nothing. But inside him was a question mark.

“What’s the promise?” Walter stilled his dad with each hand on his shoulder. He said again, “What?”

His dad looked through him somewhere onto the other side of the wall and said, “Know one knows!”

Chris’ family had all eaten and they all gathered around Walter to see a puzzled look: A look of death all over him.

“No one knows the promise?” Walter was sweating. The others were quiet. It was like a bolt of electricity was all over him. Cheryl went to touch him, but he again withdrew. He said, “Not now, Cheryl!”

“Don’t do that!” said Preach to his son. Walter got testy. He raised his hand toward Cheryl, but something touched his shoulder.

It was Preach and he said, “Honor thy Father…” He was grave when he said it and thoroughly in his right mind. And then Walter turned. And then his dad was gone again. Preach said, “With a promise!”

Walter looked at his watch. It said 10:34. Could it be? he thought to himself. Could it really be? What if it were true? All his dad had read about, preached about, taught about… Could it be this day? Walter had to leave. He stormed out of the nursing home grieved and unaffected, hearing his little sister CeCe say, “It’s him!”

11:49pm. Walter closed the door behind him. Slowly in the little motel he pulled the old .357 revolver from beside an old Gideon Bible that was on the shelf. He looked at his watch.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. But it was more like a prayer and less like an insult. He said, “If you are real… If you really do talk back, please… I forgive my papa for never being around. Please now forgive me before you come tonight. Please before you come tonight come inside of me!”

12:01am. Walter had fallen asleep. It was the most restful sleep he had ever had in ages. He opened up his eyes. Cheryl was beside him. Watching… with more love toward him than he had seen in her in years. It was 11:15 in the morning when he rose.

And Jesus hadn’t come back. It was all for nothing. Nothing: Except for one thing. The old Gideon’s Bible was open and a highlighted text was resilient against the AC as its pages.

No one knows the day nor hour… Cheryl had found it. She unmasked the little mystery in her head far before anyone else. She later told the others a story of a little preacher’s triumph for his son.

But there was more. Chris after that day seemed to crumble more and less each day. He continued to cry for home. So Cheryl and Walter took him in. But it was funny. He sensed the seasons. He would sometimes weep and sometimes, still, he would whisper, “Home.”

Just to see her…

Introduction: Would you face death to meet the love of your life once more?

“Yes, they will.” I took a sip from my half-drunk cup of strawberry wine and placed the glass

back onto my kitchen table. “They will believe… I mean they would. If I went, that’s all.”

You’d bet your life on it? the Voice answered softly. There was urgency in His Voice even as the drink went down. I stiffened up a little. We had had this talk before. I changed subjects.

“I’m a mess, Lord,” I started but paused insincerely to scratch my side before I continued, “but I-” Forgiven. He never judged. I was grateful for that.

I want to talk. God spoke. I had been venting for the last hour. I can guarantee you’ll see her again. I almost wanted to quit. But first there’s this one thing. What could I say to that? The lighting in my kitchen proved to have shadows. How could He bring her back?

“I should have stopped her,” I felt the shadows but could not resist. They turned in my taste and in the fragrance of my alcohol.

Stop blaming yourself. I wanted to but that morning she left for the plane kept replaying in my memories. The way she rolled her hair into a bun... I remember telling her how much I liked her hair before it was dyed. How she took out her car keys and the way they sounded as she turned them in the car. Something told me but I did not listen.

Let go. Again, I wanted to. I gripped my glass harder. The shadows passed. The smell of alcohol was in the air but this time my problems refused to die. It was an aroma to me, that smell, and I had grown used to it over the years since her passing. Years. That was another shadow, and inside I crumbled.

I needed her. His voice was sincere. Did God really like to resurrect my ghosts? I felt a smile. Trust me…

I nearly killed myself that night. I died so hauntingly to my past that I forgot the pain before morning. Weeks passed. How did I do it? Don’t ask. I just had to stop. Think, I asked myself. What would it take to put it down? I held onto the bottle for three years. Or should I say, it held onto me. Time was provoking. Meaning I had none. Simply put, I desired to stop but had no reason, so I forced my efforts on the Call. But all in all, I thought about her. She was my angel. She never died to me… Never.

I picked up the phone and dialed my mom.

“Mom?” I asked. I listened for her voice.

“Victor, boy?” she asked. I answered her inside… I died when I did that, but I had to. I was in love... With her. “Are you…”

“I, I, I don’t know,” I said. She was understanding but not thoughtful.

“Something’s wrong… I can feel it! Are you...”

“No, Ma. No,” I laughed at her insecurity. She would never know how much I could change. I was fleeting now: Inside, willing, but not yet open. “I’m okay.”

“It’s early,” she hinted.

“I didn’t… think it was that… late,” I looked at my watch. Ouch! I hesitated. Are you sure, Lord? Silence. “Ma, I never said this to you, but I never let it go.”

“She’s dead, baby, please.” A picture of me staring at the closed casket forced me into submission.

“I know, Mom, that’s why I called. She could never-”

“I know you loved her.” I listened to her voice; her frailty in it convicted me of her sensitive side.

I didn’t have a choice. “She’s- No, Ma, you don’t understand, I-”

“I know, son,” How I loved it when my mom broke in.

“I’m changing, Ma,” I eased the phone onto my shoulder and rested against the receiver. “I just called to ask you if you could remember your dreams.”

The voice over the phone quieted down. “I do…”

“Well, pray and some of them just might come true.” We talked a few more minutes and then I hung up the payphone, looked at the cloudless day and stepped into the sun’s glaring white light. It was like a waking memory that you carried, probably the type you remember in your death. I refocused my eyes and my hand zipped into my pocket and fished around for my plane ticket. Marisa, I need this, I mourned. My bike was still running, purring against the low hum of the passing traffic. I was on highway 288, across from a small Eat at Joe’s establishment. The tin roof of the restaurant shot a defiant look back at the sun and raised its mangled silver folds as to say, “I hope the AC’s on inside.”

“I could go for a cheeseburger, Lord.” The scent of ribs was intoxicating. I looked over my shoulder to the small home away from home, Motel 6. The pool was gutted out and algae had thoroughly eaten all but the floral tile that laced the interior of the pool. You’re not hungry ,I heard Him mention.

“Yes, I am,” I spoke aloud, unwittingly entertaining a seven year old girl in a My Little Pony tee.

“Who you talking to, sir?” She had come up unannounced and had butted into my sacred conversation. I thought about hamburgers, and the smell of alcohol somehow pulled against my spirit. I knelt down and looked into green eyes and spoke to innocence.

“Child,” I smiled, “I’m talking to the whispers that men sometimes hear!” The cologne of alcohol was getting stronger. I saw the mother hen motion to the baby chick, and then they disappeared down the asphalt west, somewhere far away.

You’re thirsty.

“You’re right.” I hate it when you’re right, Lord. “I need gas.”

Death was solemn, yet this bridge seemed distanced. Her plane never arrived. They never found her body. Again, the alcohol: But this, time no taste.

The night in the airport looked like a black diamond. The sky was opaque, with shiny glimpses of stars singing quietly, guiding the large carriers of people far and away. The planes thrust into the air, lifting off like train wrecks (dare I say) roaring against sound. Then they wound into the black fog of atmosphere and whispered away to tethers of wind and smoke. I watched them from the glass that withheld us people like fish, ever gazing and motionless in time, awaiting our departure.

“Am I really?” I spoke aloud, my Colorado backpack neatly tucked over my shoulder.

There was no dial tone to God this time but His whispers cooed my spirit. My heart wondered.

“Then why?” I asked. I breathed hard. “Why send me?”

They need to know. Words emptied out like water. God would not tell me of my death. He only said go. Elders are falling. All I need is willing. After these words a little boy passed before me inquiring of others something with tears in his eyes. He passed like water between those waiting and then, I felt the calm of a hand against my wrist. It was the child.

“Mister…” In him was a fear. “My mother…”

“What is it, child?” I too could coo.

“I don’t know, sir.” He hesitated, shifted between legs and then spoke in a frail tone, “I think-”

He looked no older than three but confided in me he was four.

Lost...

Immediately I rose. His name was written on his shirt on a small white sticker. Michael. The night captivated the child with scary thoughts. I could tell because he looked out the window as if to see things that weren’t there. Behind us planes screeched to a halt on asphalt carpet. We began to search the terminal. With him to guide me, we passed from woman to woman finding little. We passed a brunette and then returned, circling her face and then heading out again. My eyes had long left the Lord, who I had had enough of praying to. Nothing...

I was getting restless. The child locked his hands into his blue corduroys and looked and looked. Beyond us planes left and went. Above us terminal numbers were being read like a stream of consciousness. Something alerted me to the boy. I watched him gaze from my bench after about an hour. His brown tufts shined in the luminous fluorescent lights. Through it all, He watched and comforted.

She’s here. I listened. I smiled as if she was already before me.

In between thoughts I remembered what the Lord meant by elders. If the elders were falling then it must be serious. The child sniffled. I looked down at him, slightly beneath my knee and wondered. He was lost. I sat back down. I wondered his purpose, this child who had found me. Then from nowhere, my eyes went smoky. A mist trailed and the blackness went blacker. Did I doze? I felt a nothingness pull against me and I coughed up blood. Fires were lit. Like incense rose a fragrance that I could never had known. It smelt like wax burning yet I saw no candles. Screaming—loud womanly shrieks that pierced the darkness like needles into a cushion. I gasped for air and just as I did I felt sunlight warm my skin. But there was no light seen. Was God showing me my death?

I awoke with death lying beside me. There were no candles, and no one was shrieking in horror. Cuddled tightly was the child Michael in the hard plastic white and orange chairs.

It’s time. God motioned me away from the child. I looked at him. Above in the voice of the intercom I heard, “Final boarding for flight 266…”

I couldn’t leave him. Then, another tug on my spirit: She’s here. I gazed toward my terminal and clenched my bags. Slowly I tested the words I had heard. You wouldn’t leave him, God, I thought. Why would God leave me with this child and then tell me off? The child winced in his slumber and I looking longingly over him, shifted inside. I glanced at my watch, then the child. I turned in my seat before I rose. God wouldn’t leave this child unattended. No, I went firm against the voice. I went to sit back down and my peace left.

You’ll miss it... The Voice turned in my belly as my eyes glanced to and fro. The terminal was full of other people, buzzing back and forth, adding to the background noises. They rushed like traffic to their places and I innocently merged with them. But at the last moment, I stuttered in my steps and found myself walking back to the child. It was almost as if I felt Him hold His breath.

“I can’t, Lord!” I thought aloud as I came to Michael. Then, peering between the shadows, a woman spoke. “Michael?” And then again. “Michael!” I stepped back, almost afraid of the voice, all the while sensing the soft glow of agitation from the Lord. Nervously the child rose and sat up. Scraping him up (with an eye of suspicion), she muttered a small thank you and commenced to disciplining Michael. “I told you to stay near me!” Her voice, no longer small, cut him like a belt and he fell into her arms. I was not close to Michael but the mother eyed me from my distance. Doubting she knew my presence of help, I moved closer. “Michael,” she crumpled him in her embrace. Then from her eyes darts warned me away. She didn’t know I had tried to help. Again, but this time she wept a whisper, “Michael”. The child was lost in her and still tired.

Leave them! God went firm and immediately I obeyed, walking to my terminal, handing my ticket to the stewardess (after shuffling through my paperwork) and getting on the plane.

On the plane I looked out into the black haze and questioned, “What Lord? What did I miss?” Silence. The Lord unctioned pain in my spirit and I lowered my head.

“Forgive me…”

On the plane I hesitated. I waited for the seatbelt sign to turn off as we rose in altitude, feeling the weightlessness steady, along with an ease that rafted in the cabin like a fresh new fragrance. Settling in my chair, others pulled down the lap tables that were attached to the backs of the seats in front of them and opened their books and magazines, engrossing their eyes in blank thought. I activated the small overhead light, watching the cloud of dust float in its wake, then turned to my box. Unraveling the masking tape that lifted off parts of the cardboard, I fished through the envelopes I had kept unopened since she passed (she was always writing me) and having turned to the last of her memoirs to me, sitting alongside the night, across from the window that peered outside, I turned the envelope in my hand: A single name, a strand of string keeping the letters together and a scent, her scent. My Marisa: The last of her thoughts.

A tear... I read to myself.

My Victor,

Love! How strange after all this time these people, who call themselves The Night, have seemed to predict His Coming. I mean, they tell me that the wind has an urgency. They say that the clouds are designing change. And yet, they wonder who this Great Man is. Their faith erupts when I talk of who it is they see in the cloud formations. I don’t understand why Christ is revealing Himself to these people but it is like watching children who are trying to find their way! I can only watch and yet I’m in the breath of sorcery feeling its strength, like it speaks of in Romans the eighth chapter 22nd verse where the creation longs for the Creator. Pray for me, please! These people are almost ready to receive! How they love my words! I know you haven’t the money to come just yet, but something ails them. They question me as to what tribe I am from. Do come soon, my love! Some of them are so curious. The men in her (the great storyteller’s) tribe look at me and I know that it is God who is protecting me. It is the men’s eyes I try to avoid. Sometimes I wonder if the Lord has let me rest in a lion’s den. Their lust is only held back by the presence of the storyteller, who I graciously healed of a foot disease. But still I carry myself with honor, always watching to keep from being left alone-

Shadows moved and suddenly the scented letter which I held crackled into a wild blue flame and down to its ashes. It seemed to disintegrate into thin air! Cursing aloud, I dropped the letters which had uneasily rested on my lap and, still lost in the thought of her words (what was it she was telling me about those men?), I trembled as the man next to me nearly had a heart attack, spilling his Zinfandel against his khakis and also somehow finding its way onto my jeans.

I scattered to catch the falling letters and before my eyes I saw black creases of charring vein onto them and felt a looming darkness maul into my thoughts. “She died on a plane!” spoke the shadows as what seemed like a gulfing of turbulence shuddered the craft and plastic cups in the seats fell. Lightning flashed and I whipped my head out the window onto the engines, one of which coughed up sparks and whined like a dying horse.

The alcohol waxed through the air and I felt the shadow’s thirst. Get up! spoke God in an audible voice, and I tore away from the seat just as it rocketed on one side.

“Sir! Please remain seated!” the attendant spoke fearfully as others went to gather their seatbelts. I looked wildly at her and then rushed to the bathroom, all the while yelling out, “It’s an emergency!”

Closing in, she gripped my right shoulder and I tensed from her touch. “Please, sir!”

“No!” I ripped my arm away and as the plane took a jerk, I felt a little bit of a leveling off.

“Please!” Her hand again.

“You don’t understand.” I had to obey.

Puzzled, she released me and there was an agitation in the air. The shadows were rising. Immediately I sank into the bathroom, lifting the occupied sign up. The plane dropped in altitude heavily, with me gripping for the light switch all the while trying to find the paper towels. Then I felt a rush as a torrent of questions flooded my mind. The plane’s going down! Someone might want to use the restroom and that attendant is going to open the door at any minute! This is the darkness that you saw in your dream! You’re going to take a drink again! Struggling, I found the light switch, which simultaneously awoke the fan. I felt like a weight had hammered onto my chest and my eyes opened wide, as if to breathe in air.

“Sir!” The voice was concerned. I felt the sound of her hands touching the plastic door.

“I’ll be-” I began. “Just one, oh God!” The thoughts streamed against my mind as I clamored against the spilt alcohol until the paper towel was stained. You’re gonna die! Just like her! Just like—no, untrue. I inhaled fear like a rising piñata and then like a struck one, the plane tilted off axis and screamed against the air. Huffing out wind I began to pray, “Lord! What’s happening?!”

The alcohol was strong and I felt its urge. Immediately I began to douse the alcohol with wet paper napkins.

“Sir…” the woman began.

It was too soon. The Father of Lights spoke. And memories of alcohol intoxicated my thinking.

“Sir, we’re over the Pacific and one engine of four has failed. The captain has asked that everyone be in their seats.” The lights flickered. “Sir?”

Lord, give me strength! I closed my eyes and then realized I had kept one of Marisa’s letters in my hand. My racing thoughts bled fear as I reopened one of her first thoughts.

My Victor,

The stars would turn before I lose you. I don’t know when, but my Lord has promised that I would see you. Think, remember his firmness that I go before you? Now I understand why. The Lord is sovereign, Vic, he waits for the perfect time. I know we’ve been writing to each other for the last two years. And yet still the Lord reminds me that I’m needed. There is this greater purpose. I can’t say why, but I remember you saying it was like the Heart of God could not catch His Breath…

I had read enough. Still panicking like the very plane I rode, I almost crumpled the letter, shaking, defiant, lost and fearful. I felt anger arise. He had promised… And yet she was gone. The letter caught aflame with the same blue fire. Please God, not my letters! I scrambled to put out the letters with the paper towel, forgetting the alcohol, and the flames grew stronger.

No! The Father’s voice grew loud in my spirit. Trust me…

“Sir, I need you back at your seat. I need you-”

I need you. The Father grew distant, quiet but observing.

I wanted to curse. I hate this, Lord! I hate this… I know You, Lord; you tell me you needed her. I mean, even after the letters stopped you never quit telling me how you needed her. But I don’t understand! It’s impossible, Lord, she wrote and told me everything in those letters and my jealousy kept me from reading them all. My jealousy, Lord! I confess my jealousy to you. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to protect her! I wanted to be there. Had I not lost hope, had I continued to read all her letters I would know! I confess you did pull me from the drink. I ask You now to help me! I want to curse you, God! I don’t understand, Lord! I don’t, God, please, don’t make me. Please don’t, please…

The letter was no more.

The plane eventually stabilized.

I remained alone.

And the alcohol slowly worked its magic.

I wanted a drink.

I need you. A presence calmed the air, making the shadows flee, and then rested beside me. Please, trust me. A picture of Adam reaching out to God unfolded in my mind. I need you to trust. I had nothing else to live for. Yes, Lord… I thought about the pain that would be there. I didn’t want to die. But if that was what the Lord had meant by seeing her again then, than that would be what it took. I’ll die for You.

Trust me.

I returned to my seat, somehow knowing that it was an evil force that had consumed the letters. Witchcraft.

When the stewardess addressed me just before arrival, I looked her in her eye and said, “I’d like a cup of your finest wine…”

She smiled. “Anything else?”

“And a pack of those on-flight crackers…”

Marisa.

The plane touched down gracefully, in spite its handicap, near a remote jungle in the Philippines. Spared were a few of the letters of my Marisa to me about these people, and I kept them close. Yet without the many letters that were burned (The evil had hands, it seemed) I cut through the jungle with my newly-bought machete. I had found a path, however, and Lino, my translator upon request, spoke little of what he knew of The Night.

“Almost there,” he would say, as he judged the sun from within strips of green and vines thick like ropes and just as coarse. I pelted the greenery as it tore from my blade, spitting juice and nectar against my white tee.

“You said that twenty minutes ago!” I retorted. Lino walked ahead, cutting away at the large vines and leaves.

“Trust in me, these people-” was all my translator could reveal when he stumbled across a wall of human skulls driven into the ground by wooden poles and held to them with twine or hair. “Great God almighty!” I dropped my machete.

“None of the letters spoke of this.” I was referring to the skulls. “God,” I whispered aloud. It had been hours since I left the plane. I wondered about this. Marisa never spoke about this shadow side of the Night.

“Are you sure Mr. Victor Rice?” spoke Lino, wiping his brow with a gnarled tan handkerchief, “Are you sure about this?” He was a short man. He carried his blade in his left hand while he slowly deposited his handkerchief into his shirt pocket. I eyed him for a moment and wondered of his courage. Then, as if in a moment of hypocrisy, I wondered about mine.

Again, “I don’t recall this in my letters…” I placed a hand on one of the skulls and it was like a forbearing of the future. Light showered in from a thousand pockets between the trees. I swatted my neck: Mosquitoes... Wet heat... I heaved the machete into a green and brown vine and watched it rip in two. “Thy Will, Lord, Thine be done…” I could only whisper.

“You might want to say a prayer for me.” Lino noticed my solemnity. “And may it be Him that wins against them!”

Lino leaned against one of the poles and with a twist pried off the skull until there was nothing but a nub. He undid another. “These will make good bowls for my soup!”

“Aren’t you a little concerned?” I looked at him as he secured the two skulls onto his belt.

“The Night have never been known to cannibalize,” he said. “These skulls are just a bane for evil spirits.”

“Really?”

Lino looked me in my eye and swore, “Really.”

“If that is so, then maybe he will tell it otherwise.” I looked ahead and as I did came eye to eye with a boy not much older than ten who peered from among the wrinkles of the jungle. Lino went still. The air became magic, lit with festive swears and unspoken questions. We had arrived.

“Chivoh, ben Chow!” the boy scratched at his chest and spat. His face was black, as if from charcoal smearing, which matched his torn trousers. He watched me and I him. Staring into his eyes, I noticed a coldness unlike a child his age should have.

“He says,” Lino spoke slowly, watching the spear in the boy’s right hand. “He says the great storyteller knows who you are.”

“Storyteller?” I rummaged through my knowledge of the letters and it felt like there was a bog in my mind. I whispered something great in the name of Christ and felt my mind ease. Marisa spoke of the storyteller. And she who speaks, speaks wonders of the great mystery of the past. I recalled.

Slowly the pointed tip of the boy’s spear turned my way, “You are welcome, stay!” As his voice gurgled a broken English, I stared at Lino. He smiled half-heartedly and dropped one of the skulls. It landed with a thud and a flock of uneasy birds rose from the south. They called out against the ripples of waterfalls and jungle noises that carried through the vines and leaves that surrounded us. Hours away from the plane we were, as I brought my handkerchief into the sweat of my forehead. And then the whole jungle moved.

What looked like vines became arms. It was like the silhouettes and shadows had become alive. And I stared into maybe a dozen pairs of eyes. And the Night stared back.

Lino dropped the skulls.

After a moment the boy spoke again and what Lino translated could only be uttered in broken English. “They need you to break the fever of the Woman sent. They need your healing hands so they can call on the ManGod. They say their god is not strong enough.” Lino paused and in the heat and sweat , and light he spoke in their tongue, pointing at the skulls that looked over the perimeter. “These are the few of the first martyrs of the ManGod,” Lino sighed, “They say they were afraid at first, the Night was, because they had never seen a man King.”

I slowly picked up one of the skulls that Lino had dropped and immediately thought of Marisa. Lord, I wasn’t told they had martyrs. Guide me, Christ. One of the Night’s men watched me mutter to God and he mimicked my words.

“Guide me, Christ,” he said, “Guide me! Guide me! Guide me, Christ!” he went into convulsions, sending his pupils to the back of his skull and jumping up and then down and then up again. They all began to jump up, shouting out Christ’s name and speaking in an uncertain tongue. Glaring into the green of the bush, I asked Lino what they were saying and Lino stepped back, turned in the palm leaves and gasped.

“Please! Chivo wreckta novin!” was all Lino said before a spear drove into his leg. The boy lunged back and then forward like a monkey and watching them all, I spoke up, “Stop!” But they didn’t listen, shouting louder, “Guide me, Christ! Guide me, Christ! Guide me!”

Then in sheer inspiration I screamed, “In the name of Christ, stop!” Suddenly, as if it were timed, they all became silent, still like mountains while just as strong. Lino was left screaming, hissing and in pain as they watched.

And a woman stepped into the clearing of men.

She pulled the spear from Lino’s left thigh and tossed it away like a used needle.

“Guide me, Christ,” she said and then laughed. And when she broke out in laughter the entire tribe broke out in laughter. “Weak.” Lino lay whimpering with both hands pressed against the wound while blood trickled down his brown khakis and onto the ground. I sensed the shadows move. It’s dangerous, spoke the Lord as he motioned me to pray. Silently, he whispered as if they could hear Him.

And maybe they did.

Just maybe…

We were inside.

The storyteller knelt before me, locked into my eyes as if she was gauging my soul. Blue flames leapt from her fire and wisped up into the air, sending ashy embers to the ceiling of the small clay room. The smoke seemed to wrap around the little woman like a boa constrictor and then died into the thin air. Shadows hid behind shadows, dancing in the light of the flames like shy children and then hiding behind the storyteller and marking against the soot that wrote on the sides of the walls. The smell of rain made the air static and alive and full of tension.

“Bockchu man fu!” the storyteller said, glancing at the many scratches and scars against her sooty arms.

“She wants me to leave,” Lino revealed. “She has little trust in men.”

“I,” the attention turned to the woman, who wore a string of bones as a necklace, “don’t ne’d yuu!” When the storyteller spoke, it felt like the air trembled. All movement seemed to stop, as if death had suddenly arrived at the door and was waiting patiently. She spat a rebuke at the two armed guards, who left immediately, and I watched as the limping Lino disappeared into a hole off to the side near the front entrance.

The room we sat in was like a watercolor rendition, with soft purples for a sky and brilliant blues swirling into midnight hues that darkened with the soot. Only the bold white chalk sang of the stars above, and along the walls I watched as I felt the storyteller speak, arguing.

“My Woman-sent need help.” She tried to smile. Her eyes were afire. I stared back anyway.

“Who is this woman-sent?” I asked.

The fire lowered with her whispers. “Who are you to ask me? Speak with an answer!” She found a bowl, painted blue like the sky before the sun sank and motioned it to me. “Drink.”

Alcohol…

“The spirits say you drink.” She bared what few teeth she had and then brought the bowl to her lips. Then spitting into the flame, she handed me the bowl.

No. The Lord spoke and I felt the spirits tense up.

I politely pushed the bowl away.

“All my children drink,” she said. “You thirst?” Her hand had placed the bowl beside me and I breathed in the heaviness of the drink.

“If you want me to cure the Woman-sent then remove the bowl from my eyes,” I said.

“What is Mi Eyes?” Her head cocked to the side and then she sipped her bowl. Stormy brown eyes again locked into mine as if someone with authority. She laughed for a moment and held my gaze. “The spirits say so much.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“My children burden the Woman-sent about you.”

“Marisa?”

“Do tell…” the woman mocked. The alcohol was offered. She saw me glance and it was enough. “I’ll bring her. But first...” She slid the bowl against the ground to me. The brew slipped over the side and spilt against the ground, muddying up the dirt like spittle. I grimaced. Marisa was somewhere near? If she were near… My hand trembled toward the cup.

“The visions I carry say you are weak,” she said. She put one finger into the spilt brew and lifted it to her lips tauntingly. The small room seemed to dim as from the glow of the fire diminished. The storyteller spat into the blue flame and in the glare of the flame, her eyes grew fiercely wide. Outside the men could be heard chanting, “Guide me, Christ! Guide me, Christ!”

“Inju say,” she began, “we are the last tongue of Babel.” A crackle of a laugh and then a sneer followed.

My hand pulled away from the bowl. Strength, Lord, strength, I whispered.

The Lord said nothing.

“Do you desire Him to deliver you? Spera speaks of the cursed Man-God who knows the stars by name. But she is she that threw the stars into the sky one by one… Stars like hot coals held in the air by woman’s hair. Fabled hair… Storyteller hair… I know every man’s fate.” She twisted over to her side and pulled another bowl down. “This nectar is not as strong but just as sweet…” She laid it down before me. “The Woman-sent speaks of a man who leads her.”

I listened as she spoke fluently, like spilt water. I sensed the Lord watching and I looked at the cup. It was like my eyes could not release from staring. Somewhere, my Marisa walked. Somewhere she spoke. Somewhere. It was a matter of when. Lord! Do something! Suddenly words bubbled into my spirit and before I knew it, I had grabbed the stronger wine and smiled.

“Taste and see,” I said, “that the Lord is good!” I sipped the brew. As it went down I held the bowl, thumbing its crooked glazed edges out to the storyteller. I looked at her, confident in the small miracle that had just taken place, and watched her sip.

“Now may I see her?” I had won.

Amazed, the little woman with coarse black hair dried her lips with her locks. “This water!”

“You promised I could see her!” I would not be mocked. The woman poured the water, once wine, into the blue flame until only the embers glowed. Like the shadows behind the shadows, all was night.

“So he does tricks too,” she spoke to herself. “Yes, promised I.” Then she said, “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came and went. The storyteller had lied.

“You said she needed healing,” I said.

“You didn’t drink.” The storyteller had changed her mind.

“I did,” I said.

“You didn’t,” she went firm. “My children need her!”

That puzzled me. Something clicked inside when she said those words. And the game began. The day was fresh and hot and I looked at the storyteller and began to speak, “Who needs her, storyteller?”

The storyteller said, “The stars beckon her home every day but she knows the ways of first aid.” The storyteller looked into the sun beyond the palm leaves and through the windows of light. “What are you saying?”

We were alone save the green backdrop. Sweet nectar fell from the gigantic greenish leaves onto the jungle’s floor as pockets of steam rose in the still air from the waterfall just shy of a stone’s throw away. I felt like the Lord was smiling. I had finally cornered her. Scrambling to find what the Lord meant by the children I had met during my journey out here I guessed aloud, “Do your children need her?”

She smiled, “Yes, my-”

“Or her children?” I snapped.

The storyteller ruffled out the seams in her skins. “My children!”

“She cured you once,” I remembered. “That makes her greater than you!”

She placed a hand onto her right foot, which was marred with mud (for it had rained yesterday and the ground was muddying up a bit). “If you don’t see her soon she will be sent to her Man-God.”

“Tell me,” I started, “what is it you want from me?”

“Tell me,” she paused, “what is it you want from me?”

It was a standstill. I thought for a moment, my mind racing through all Marisa’s letters.

“Other gods are failing,” she said. “I need her.”

“To prove her God is real?”

She shot me a look. “I know her God is real.”

“How?”

“My children are dying and are not living again.”

“What do you mean?”

“When they die,” she sighed heavily, “I know it is not to the God that they go.”

She moved into the light, the glare beating off her dirty forehead and the sounds of the jungle rising and falling as she admitted, “He saved her once from my boy ones.”

Again I asked, “How?”

“Lightning struck the man who tried…” she said. “That’s when I know her Man-God was with her.”

“Let me see her.” I got wise. “Her Man-God would want that!”

She bowed her head. “He would.”

That night Lino undressed his wound. His leg, bandaged for the past three days, was put in a splint and then had miraculously healed. He walked about, smiling about what the Lord had done, and had even received a remark. “Speak about your God and I’ll spear you again!” he had translated. Lino was quiet from then on.

The others watched me. We were behind a fire which roared, and I listened as the storyteller spoke to her children in her tongue. She had kept her secret like Nicodemus had about the Kingdom of God. Yet she still followed her pagan rituals every so often, eyeing me from her stance. It was dark that night, charcoal black to be exact, with little light coming from the moon above. The natives’ faces were painted with reds and oranges. Lino spoke to me quietly as the men leapt and rocked back and forth.

“This is a ceremony to remember the dead,” Lino said. I wondered if Jahana (the story teller finally released her name) had meant this as an offering to her god or mine for all the souls that had been lost. I was curious. I watched the men dance around the women, teasing and rejoicing and then stepping back as their counterparts stood up and joined the game. All the while Jahana witnessed.

“Jahana says that Jesus was the God that made Inju fall,” Lino said. Jahana moved her hands against the fires, walking, and speaking, spitting, “Inju cavan tu revi spool nini Marisa!”

I looked up. “What did she say?”

Lino turned to me as if in a daze. “Jahana says that Marisa died an hour ago.”

“Well, why is she smiling?” I asked. The story teller had joined the dance.

Lino looked up and turned to me. “She believes your Man-God will raise her from the dead…”

“Or?”

“Or you will be burned alive!” Lino said.

I recalled my vision from the terminal and then remembered Marisa’s promise from God. “I will see you again, Marisa.” Even if it meant in death...

The fire rose and the shadows within the shadows brought tension in the air. Something in me rose up.

Lino stared at me. “The men think I am sacred for being held of God. They won’t hurt me.”

“And me?” I asked.

“You, I don’t know.”

As the dancing became chaotic Jahana’s followers were seen handling a large cot just beyond the fire’s light. From where I sat it looked to be something covered over by a light translucent cloth. Jahana, nearby, never turned to me but I felt as if all eyes had turned to me. Jahana, the great storyteller, reared back and cackled aloud. Her followers, almost in unison, poured out a stream of laughter. Then, with delicate hands, Jahana pulled the cloth away and I tried but couldn’t see what she had brought out. As she motioned me near I felt the surge of the Holy Spirit, first comforting, and then, as I neared the cot, dripping from my hands like wet electricity. It looked like a body. The scent of the fresh rain mingled with that of mud and she laid the body just off to the side, staring now at me and then to her children. The air grew static. There seemed a reverence for the body, as if its presence had earned their respect. And as I drew close slowly, I felt the Spirit pray and strengthen me. And even before I saw the body I knew. After all these years Marisa had lived, until now.

Lino overheard some of the natives’ tongue and said, “She has only been dead a short while.” The wet electricity seemed to pour out like sparks from a soldering torch.

Then something gnawed at me. I wondered why Jahana had waited to tell me of her death. If Jahana was in need of my wife, then what had she to gain at her loss?

“Hu looku watchva ro sem!” Jahana said.

“Jahana says Inju has given her the strength of the moon!” said Lino. “In the ways of the Night the moon holds the power to stop death. See, the moon is dying under Jahana’s strength!” The moon had crept into the shadow of the Earth and went dark. But inside I wondered at the storyteller’s belief. I thought of the child in the terminal and I looked at the men of her tribe. Jahana was hanging onto all that she had and somehow, somehow, I knew she knew she was cornered. Then there was Marisa. Her eyes closed as if in unbelief made me wonder about the very Lord I had served. He had promised us both things. And if my trip ended with this alone I would’ve been satisfied.

“Wake her!” moaned the storyteller.

“No,” I said, “I won’t test Him.”

“Him? The Man-God?” she paused. “Then die.”

The men of her tribe clenched my wrists and yanked me near a pile of wood. She had planned this, she had, like a master of chess. Had I only woke her, I would have been at her command. If I sat still she would have drawn more of her followers close. Lino watched from a distance.

“Lino!” Still my hands burned with a holy flame. “Do something!”

Lino stood up. The storyteller backed away with eyes alight like a wild coyote. He said, “Stop! Buthay Manchu tokka fat Man-God!”

Still nothing... My courage began to grow as the fire within me burned. “Guide me, Lord!”

The chants, the heat, the lies, all became a lit fuse and the men of the tribe in half garments stood up with spears and shattered all peace. They lit the fire below me. Lino screamed. The electricity began to melt into the air. The storyteller, Jahana, now smiled in comfort. She had me.

And then, just a cry away, Marisa arose.

And all stopped. I promised. The very breath of God in me had awakened her. And Jahana stood down. In her, this witch doctor of tales slowly spun her last weave. She had not seen someone conquer death. But she had heard of someone long ago, told in the tales of my wife, of He who had come to free all men from their sin. The women began to move toward me and untie my wrists.

“Holda buncta moona low,” said the storyteller..

“This one is lost in translation,” Lino said, “but it has something to do with the Woman-sent loving her tribe more than her.”

The men had come closer to Marisa, who stood, lit with the Glory of God. “I was with Jesus… Buncta vin lad Man-God…” her voice was calm, patient. “I didn’t want to come back.”

The wrist bands snapped off and I ran to my Marisa. I touched her and felt a hot tear shed. I had come all this way. “What was it like in Heaven?”

“Tella moonley wratha con.” I looked at her as she spoke in English. “These are the last. The final tongue of Babel, Victor! My, you’ve put on some weight, love!” Her embrace was crystal. Alongside us the women of the tribe stood strong, smiling and laughing. Men who had mocked this Christ slowly wept in disbelief. Their great storyteller now moved in the shadows that flickered until she was beyond sight.

I had to see. The Lord’s Spirit flowed through like wind, entering the hearts of the hard men and women. Somewhere I had imagined the Lord sounding the last trumpet. In my heart of hearts I wondered. Is He really on His way? The people here were simple; they didn’t know the magnitude of this touch from Heaven. I embraced her again, my once-dead wife, and thanked the Lord. Since then my eyes had always looked to the sky.

“Whore,” I said lowly. I had an eye on the little waitress for some time now. Perfect, I thought as I glared into the blinds of the little Diner just beyond the subway. Day had come early that morning; the daylight savings was next weekend. I cursed bitterly at the hypocrite with his Bible. We had protested his church. Heretic, my mind screamed. At least I was alone. I had watched Cleveland enter Benny’s Diner from outside along the street. Good friend, but a follower… A bad one at that.

“This is good,” I muttered.

I guess it was the way he handled himself, this so-called prophet. His cult had a following which erred on some of the main points of the—well, never mind. I was digressing. His pretty smile was enough to gather a large group of people after him. This waitress I happened upon was perfect. Nonbeliever like him… But I had watched this little fuzzy britches for some time, and I agree she was a looker. She had even got herself a Bible to save face. Oh, a ring! It shined even from here, a glittering nugget on a hand holding a notepad. Nice, probably bought at a second-hand… Wait Cleveland, not yet! Jesus, Cleve’s got no sense for brains. I should have gone in. A two-bit waitress was courting the young man of the cloth. Not much of a man of the cloth, I thought.

This little man was the devil’s tool, spreading lies all over New York. Bastard. People like him deserve to die. Goin’ straight down the wide road, heh, with a broad! Musta been the good Lord to let me catch him finally! She may even have a side the way she seems to dress between shifts… No Cleveland! Not yet! Go in good with that camera! Catch them kiss- Oh come on, Cleve… Tramp’s quick, she sees ya! An’ that ol’ lady—be carefulla’ her as well. Lost ol’ woman couldn’t find God if… All these heretics. When his church goes then they’ll know. They’ll cry out an Godda’ never lettem in. St. Peter’ll rip ’em all out the book… All that talk about God an’ now the bishops will all burn! Burn ’em, I say! An burn them ashes, too!

Ha! Is that trouble in the camp I see? June preachin’ to the choir? How’s it feel to be blown off! Church must not like ya huh? Hypocrite waitress... Thassit waitress, go get his order. I hope he leaves- wah? Where’d preach go? An’ Benny too? Hypocrites probably dropped down to pick somethin’- Jes! That car almost hit me!

“Watch where ya-” Wait, there ain’t no one in that car! Oh God, and that siren; cops hitta hydrant! No one drivin’, just a guy in cuffs in the- Oh God… It can’t be. It can’t be…

The last three minutes…

The last three minutes

The man and wife’s soul had touched after a long time. They hold hands, looking deep into each other’s eyes, and I pray first time to their God. My people found the God spark, lady soul says in her. I no word, explain the Peace I feel. Trees move and mine people sorrow, God spark not found by ancestors. Lady soul with God spark eyes glow in her. Bad spirit she chase away.

“Sobered up huh, love?” Mission woman speak to man soul. I no understand sobered up.

Any moment. A Voice. Not my voice.

“Did you?” she speak in low voice. I watch clouds.

“I thought it was just me…”

“No- God people… Stars speak now. Say the Christ Spirit in us because your soul-half come back. Help us return our God spark to Him!” My words not like his tongue but still good words.

“Any moment…” Man soul say same thing God spark say in trees.

“What does that mean?”

“Son of stars maker… To you God-people come down now all men and women and boy and girl-child ready for life to begin...”

Now I hear heartbeat of Father God spark. On winds blow more God spark Voice. Soon life will begin. The walk ahead will start. The God people he spoke of was us. Outside the sky roared like a great thundercloud… And then sky break…

Matthew 24:14: And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.

The morning after:

an account from a journalist the day after the rapture

Introduction: A secular account of the happening known as the rapture… (this is an imaginary article written from the perspective of a journalist who is not a Christian but merely an observer… Pray for these people around the world…)

Page One of the New York Times

I was at my kitchen table, my teacup shivering against its saucer. And then…

We all will remember where we were and what we were doing when the happening occurred. I doubt, yet, even the word happening is a merciful word. It alludes to something without cause. A happening goes beyond a mystery. No, this occurrence was immediate, deliberate, and accurate even to an atomic second.

Yesterday at approximately three-seventeen pm Eastern Time, yet all over the world, a snatching away occurred. This is our account. This is our story of those left. This is the morning after.

Thousands upon thousands of people watched planes dive into the earth like falling stars, screaming into a bellow of smoke and flames. Hundreds of thousands witnessed more. It was as if the very fabric of humanity was ripped asunder, and for no known reason. We all saw the cars, the chaos. We all cried together. We all sat together. We all mourned together. We all wondered why.

The happening seemed to nominate some and to leave others. Hundreds of videos plastered the Internet in the moments after, and some, those too telling, only reminded us of our fate. We are what is left and if we are who are left, who, then, are the fortunate ones?

We are the ones who were the unaware, even to the last of moments, when kinship and friends, those beloved and those deemed an enemy, leave us… with only questions. What shall be?

In it all, a number of people have reported cruelty in their own pets. A coldness has loomed over us like a dreary cloud. There is an unsettling within us, a something where a nothing like it had ever resolved.

I wish I had an accurate answer. I would die to know why.

As if the Ozone was not bad enough or global warming prophesies since the eighties had gone unnoticed, even now the rain forest’s depletions have been overlooked and the simmering to a hot boil it made has us numb to the evident. We have always known.

It hit. Scientists tried to link it. Eliminating any impossible theories, it is certain that even they will begin to think outside the box. They searched for clues. After all, what was spoken within a person never could be seen. It was the condition of the heart that found a way to God’s eyes. Natural selection became a divine selection. Scientists wouldn’t have it. They dared not say God.

The atheists, in their relevant terms of understanding, found no one to fuel their deepest disputes. People hold to their religions tighter in times of crises. Some, dare I say it, become zealous, while others buy guns. I’ve always believed in angels; I’ve felt them. I never went as far as had an angel protects this car bumper sticker, nor am I a novelty collector whose house was filled with those little cherubs playing harps.

Angels, the mythical creatures of the Bible, some of those who protected God’s people, others slaughtering thousands remain mystically hidden. Did they do this? Could a god allow this? And if this is not the end, but only a prequel to another chapter, what takes place on the last page? I am afraid to ask.

But my knowledge, in order to be well rounded, I had to share in all forms of religions, all walks of life, down to philosophical thoughts and perspectives. I found the common ground of all of them and claimed it as mine own and discarded what seemed irrelevant. It is a curse to me to be prompt and to judge without listening through to the end. After all, as people we share no similar fingerprint, nor the same story, but a deep pain, a triumph, a conflict, something rises from within.

I guess to the Christian god it is even in the good book. As for a king named Solomon who was praised for his wisdom, even he turned away. It was said that women turned his heart, this great thinker of his day, the great explorer of all things beneath the sun too died, like all else beneath the sun. I would like to ask him. But I know our paths may never cross. Even the dead cannot praise a living God. I read that somewhere…

I knew of a god. I saw him in every religion.

And then the children—no children, anywhere…

But the worst of it all was just one thing: The hopelessness.

Nightmare :

The account of a the waitress named June

Cars hammered into cars outside Benny’s Diner and June, the little waitress, said nothing, a bottle of steak sauce still trembling in her hand. And then the earth shook, an earthquake practically nonexistent in New York. Alarms bellowed, people screamed and these were among the million variables which were coinciding outside double paned windows and none of which drew any connection to the mind of the waitress who perched still before an empty booth, her and his booth. June just stood there. Benny’s long drawn windows displayed a horrific tale of people running, fainting, falling. Thunder on a cloudless day rolled clearly and to the little waitress none of them were felt. The bottle fell, broke into a dozen shards and shot into a dozen directions. And those dozen shards left no mark on the little waitress, but a tear hugged her cheek from wide, hollow eyes, as a quiet horror etched into her. Her Jose, her love, her fiancé was gone.

He called it rapture, the known happening she was warned about, and warned time after time. She stood before his booth, a booth now empty, waiting, wondering if perchance he would return. The sun stared through the drawn blinds, etching long scars of shadows from between the tall buildings and throughout the whole of Benny’s Diner. The earth rumbled again, another earthquake. June was small, like she would feel before an ocean. Behind her the sound of bacon and the grease sizzled, over-cooked burning. She didn’t perceive that Benny, the cook, had stopped scraping a stainless steel spatula against his hot grill. These were common sounds, things she attributed to the job, things in the past which lingered in the air like a common incense. The smell of eggs, the distant hum of the TV, the noises of a once fully occupied diner now had in its place a substitution of screams, panic and one of fear. A dove cooed outside then left its perch within the gutter in a frantic. June’s hands still shook. She was almost catatonic, almost, until someone cursed loudly behind her. It was a little old lady, and June heard that and awoke. A woman cried for a child. More crashes. Outside a dog growled low and gave a merciless bark and then attacked something behind the alley, leaving a cry of pain and agony.

June was a statue, holding her little notepad, hands trembling, silver wrist bracelets chiming, while the world for one moment, one brief moment, had ceased to spin. It would be this memory, etched into her mind like a glowing prod, that would be remembered the most. For her next reflection, one of the future, one of a mad train about to collide into a most bitter destiny was one happening she was certain to face. It would be the memory which weathered more of her considerations hovered her fears so until she knew it would consume her. Outside every sound of every horrible thing that could be was happening. And it was happening all at once, a play with characters that had lost their place in script who continued to go thru dry motions all on stage, all together, all apart. From the glare of her reflection to the bottle in her hand to the sound of the bacon she remained while outside hell was. Somewhere a large trembling overtook earth, white ash, clouds erupted, sirens, whistles, screams, more sirens more screams. The black and white tiles of Benny’s Diner shook. More birds.... More madness...

June was beyond fear. Fear was one word that had no definition sufficient to translate what she was consumed in this moment. It left her whole, feeling abandoned and lost, hollow without. A deep regret wouldn’t help at all. It was like every word of slander in her past seemed to haunt her, laughing in hysteria as if it could damn her soul. A soul which seemed to remember all the painful things in her past and a soul who could not let them go.

A dream would not have an engagement ring as a reminder. She thumbed it, her ring, rotating it like her many thoughts and like a circle she came back to her same fears, her same finite thinking, her same despair and same anger. She was afraid. She was courageous. And she was again afraid. Still her ring turned in her fingers. I will see you again, she vowed.

A pigeon slammed into the diner’s window. And then another. And another, leaving stains of red like letters against a wall. The coldness, like the wind when it enters from a front door left open, made June shudder involuntarily. June felt it and realized a deep pain low and within her. Peace left her. She found it easy to curse, to hate, and yet hard to laugh and smile. She realized a loss inside and yet found no words to rid it, no way to ease it nothing, nor any hope.

She said, “Benny?”

Nothing… She turned around.

She said, “Benny?”

Again nothing…

He was gone too, his golden cross buried in popping grease which had fallen from a steel spatula.

Something else, thought June… Something. She rushed back to her lover’s booth on a whim. And there back at the booth was a tan shoebox. She opened it.

Inside were newspaper clippings. Trivial, she thought. An article on a woman who beat cancer three times, now age ninety-seven. An article on a fishing spot where a boy had caught a record largemouth bass. A clipping of an amateur photograph of a sunrise behind a high mountain. One small article, torn on its edges, had a circle from a black marker over an oriental couple who shared fifty-plus years together. There seemed no pattern in the choice of articles nor any in the photos, just glimpses of everyday life and its happenings. A note had followed. It said these were my memories; most I recall. There was a journal, a scrapbook, more discarded photos, mostly of June and her love, scrawls of hearts on folded papers of old letters. And then, one letter different from the others, crumpled and wrinkled save for the x’s and o’s and hearts. Written in a trembling hand were the words:

Only when you understand.

The letter read as follows:

My dear June,

This is the hardest letter of all, the one where I realized how important you are to God. Enclosed are the answers to your questions. Unfortunately, if you are reading this then it is too late. You must have some of your answers right now. It pained and it comforted me to watch the people in your little diner in their lives. They have no idea. I envy them because they are asleep to the things I have seen since I was a child. Right now, I am watching a heavily obese man read a book. I don’t care what he is reading; what I am following is that he doesn’t even know what is about to happen. And I enjoy the way the smokers outside relax in their metal chairs. I am finding interest in even the paper—yesterday’s, of course. I continue to lose segments throughout the day. Even the way a couple sharing a booth teased each other–those days were your gift to me. Part of me kept silent as long as I could. I knew I couldn’t win this battle with you unless you had seen what my eyes always looked for. I was afraid. Time had become my most precious asset. Now I know these letters will find you in a greater fear. Please listen to me when I say you are in grave danger. Not just mortal danger but danger to your very soul.

Follow the instructions please, in the end you will understand.

It appears I have fallen in love against all reason with you. I have come to the conclusion people fall and make mistakes all the time. Not that you are a mistake. No, more like you are a serendipity that has put more of an expression of life in me than I had ever felt. Don’t shudder, June, please don’t. I know you! Our connection is cosmic. I understand you now when you say things like we were meant to be. I grew up without such liberties. I can say, though, I was told I would fall for you before you were even in my life. God said it would be okay. I cried. Those Christians were cold! I understand your bitterness and please forgive me for the pains that I put you through.

June closed the letter, neatly refolded it and slowly placed it back into its little envelope. She rummaged through the box and found a stale rose, which elicited a small smile from her at its memory; some more articles of little importance, and behind a few other articles, a piece of paper with an address and a brass key paper clipped to it. Then, a little black voice recorder and a picture of her and him. Also, a fortune cookie slip of paper.

She whispered, “He kept the rose.”

June followed the slip of paper’s address to a little house just on the outskirts of New York. She gave a hollow look, eyes sunk deep from restless nights and awaking from dreams of hell while gripping her steering wheel, hard and white knuckled, teeth clenched and solemn. Her Beetle bit into the sinkholes and jolted about until it came to a full stop just in front of her fiancé’s mother’s place. The door cracked upon opening and whined as she emerged slowly from her vehicle, hands slightly shaking still, the bitterness of an atmosphere surrounding her. It stood alone on a hill of green much like a dream, and behind the dream a curtain of clouds slowly rolled east on strong winds in front of an afternoon sun. A white picketed fence, a graveled road, lavender-tinted rocks and a cemetery of three tombstones which stood beneath a large dead oak amused the little waitress. But it was a nightmare, as if no peace stirred its winds, cruel somehow, chilling cold and bare without life. The hill might as well had been drawn in charcoal black. It wouldn’t matter, for June could see no color after the great happening, the rapture. She passed a chained pit bull which just looked at her, following her with his eyes and in his eyes nothing, no love nor any emotion. A low growl and June warily stepped over a few feet, just in case. Making her way up the steps she noticed the white fence was marred with chipped paint, showing a gray undercoating. Stairs whimpered under her weight, complaining like they were overburdened and sighing as she stepped onto the porch. Her hand went to knock and then withdrew, and for a moment turning back had become an option. But she had nowhere to go and more questions than answers, and her curiosity was piqued. She cursed her fiancé for knowing her. This would be something he would do. Her hand moved toward the door. She rapped on the door and it was opened almost immediately by a tall older woman, nearly in her sixties, coarse with wrinkles and with a cigarette hanging from her lips.

The old woman drew silver hair behind her ear, turned away into her home and through her back said, “Been waitin’ for ya; come on in.” June waited, not knowing if she should follow or turn. Her eyes modestly looked back to her car as her lips caught a strand of hair which timidly wavered in the wind.

Hours later…

Hours later the two women shared stories, warming themselves as if before a fire.

“Oh, the stories of that boy…” Pearl, Jose’s mother, watched her cigarette glow a bright red as she pulled a deep drag in relief. A fly buzzed over her shoulder and she paid no mind, flicking an ash off into a rusted coffee can. She said, “Always believed he could raise the dead or somethin’. Got his personality from his dad, I guess. Never took a likin’ to his faith—his father, I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Guess he proved me wrong! I said it to myself for years, once saved, you know? Always saved… Guessed wrong, I guess…”

June bit her lower lip and said, “Your son told me stories… So many stories. I mean it made a lotta sense, it did. But I couldn’t put it to work in my life.”

“Yeah, heard ‘em myself from my husband, ‘fore he passed…” Pearl’s eyes squinted in her next drag; she let the smoke linger out and then blew it away. June looked longingly into Pearl’s cigarette, smiled a little and thought of her last smoke. Her eyes drifted into the windows along her side, watching the nothingness.

June, distant and trembling, said, “I mean, right in front of me, like somethin’ outta an old sci-fi flick… ”

Pearl shared June’s thoughts. A laugh coughed up and she shook her head in fear and disbelief and said, “Yeah, caught me in the Shop ‘n’ Save… Clerk just up and disappeared… Shoulda stole those fifties, heh, her register was opened.”

There seemed no place to escape. June’s emotions rolled over and over. She said, “All I know is this is gonna get bad… Like Old Testament type judgment…”

Pearl’s countenance drew a hopeless blank; she turned to her side, eyes cold and piercing, and said, “Thing is… I know too. Maybe it was for my own good. Maybe not, can’t tell… What I do know is there is a reason… And the hell my son talked about… It ain’t just talk; it’s for real.”

June said, “But why? Why me? Why now?” June took another longing look at Pearl’s cigarette. Now would be a good day, she thought.

Pearl said, “Dunno… Really, I dunno.”

June thought, Somethin’ he said… Just before he left. ‘I see birds all around you, and stars, June. They’re everywhere. But I see you in a shadow that you can’t find a way out of. Don’t you want to come out?’

“Jose’s been botherin’ me for decades about this.” She took a deep sigh and puffed her cigarette.

June smiled in nostalgia and said, “Yeah, he was pretty persistent…”

“You wanna see?” she asked, nodding her head to the side. “You wanna see his room?”

June ventured upstairs, her right hand sliding along a mahogany rail as a sliver of fear like electricity crackled inside. This all is soon to end, June thought. She reached the loft and tucked the back of her flannel into her blue jeans, then turned a corner into Jose’s room.

Pearl left, mentioning something about a few things she had to do. June smiled at her courtesy and thanked her. Pearl lifted her hand as if to say it was nothing and stepped through the door entrance and went down the stairs.

June trailed her left hand onto a beautifully crafted dresser. Pictures of her and Jose seemed almost collaged on its mirror. She never looked happier: a few knick-knacks, a current calendar of beaches, a couple of pieces of artwork from a younger cousin, a bed made and in order.

A scale was on the table with two plates. On one side was a key just like the one June had found in the box with letters, on the other plate nothing. She took out the key and placed it on the scale opposite the other plate. It tried to balance out but then the scale whined back; the second key was a lot heavier. Something was wrong. June grabbed both keys and placed them into her pocket. Pearl’s steps could be heard coming up the stairs. June turned around to see the old woman flick her cigarette butt into her empty bottle of beer.

“What’s this?” June asked. Taped to the bottom of the inside of the box were the words I know you are afraid but you’re the key that lies in the balance.

This was a side of Jose that she never had seen, cryptic and mysterious. She put her hand into her pocket and retrieved the two keys, noticing the heavier one seemed magnetically charged to her engagement ring.

You’re the key that lies in the balance.

A piece of the reality made June wince. She felt comfortless as a child stripped from her blanket. A finite mind ran circles of hopeless scenarios, all ending in one thing. Jose knew something… It was not like him. It was as if he had planned this out. Strange, thought June.

Outside a cat hissed as June passed by.

“That cat used to never do dat,” Pearl noted. She shooed him away and he turned and gave another hiss. She said, “Been like dat ever since Jose an dem Christians left…”

“I never asked for this,” June was praying. Still no comfort.. She rolled the window back up forcefully, caught her ring against the handle and let out a curse. She didn’t know if it mattered or not if God heard, if she was going to be punished, nor did she care at that moment. In fact… she thought as she slammed the brakes hard, bringing the car to a stop, as gravel spun and spit from between the tires. June got out, gave the door a heave shut and screamed, “What do you want from me!?!?”

Then, she remembered the little black voice recorder. June practically flew to her car and nervously rummaged through her purse, past the side pockets, through some change that slipped into a rip in her fabric and finally there into her grasp. She flipped the on switch and waited. And waited...

She cursed. “Battery dead,” said June. “Thought you thought of everything, Jose…” There was a forced smile and then a grimace and then another forced smile again. A moment of grace seemed to remind her of the double A’s in her pocket flashlight in her glove compartment. As if in a madness the little waitress fumbled through her small glove box and retrieved the batteries.

Jose’s voice sounded low and grainy in the little device after she inserted the double A’s. He seemed as he was now distant, like his voice had traveled infinite miles from a lost place and by its arrival all emotion seemed stripped, as stoic as a tree would appear, and yet he was as near as her last memories.

“Cry, my love…” Jose said. “I know I cannot count your questions… But I have come to understand your pivotal position in this lost world.”

June stopped the recorder, smeared away a tear, caught a small glimpse of a beautiful sunset and spat in anger. She pressed play again.

“God told me I’d fall in love with an unbeliever,” it said. “I didn’t believe Him. He just kept telling me it was okay. I lost so much in loving you. I know we never—well, you know, we never really were, but we were intimate in ways that I had never known. I know why now. God told me everything…”

June turned it off again, brought the little machine to her lap and wondered. She rewound the tape and drowned herself in his voice.

“…fall in love with an unbeliever,” it said. “I didn’t believe Him. He just kept telling me it was okay. I lost so much in loving you. I know we never—well, you know, we never really were, but we were intimate in ways that I had never known. I know why now. God told me everything…”

She rewound it again and pressed play. It was almost like a drag from a cigarette. She did it again.

Maybe there was still time. Maybe… How much? Did that even matter? What was left—days, months? And then it seemed that nothing could comfort her about the inevitable. Death. But something inward prompted the true question… What was going to happen next? The sand was slipping and it was a cold world. Something was amiss. Something cruel was about to be unleashed. And June knew this somewhere in her mind, somewhere where her nightmares had taken root and withered leaves had sprung. Why would God take Christians away? She thumbed her engagement ring, pondering. She shivered, not from a coldness but the coldness. I didn’t want this,. she thought.

The key. She fished into her faded jeans and her fingers slipped through a hole. A curse in her heart and then despair; her arms flailed a little, reaching for the steering wheel, reaching for the box. She sank deep into her seat gleaning the car floor finding nothing.

The key was lost. What is this, a game? she thought. Memories seemed engraved of the coming prophesy, the things which seemed to come together as the world was coming apart. And because of this, this shifting of realities, June seemed pulled, ripped, confused, comfortless and left in a horrific state. Was it a curse or a blessing? She weighed it heavily with a flurry of exciting bursts of profanity and sighs of exasperations. Hell was coming. It was coming for all. And only she knew it. Only she.

She began to wonder about the knowledge she contained. It was carefully incubated in her, story upon story from a fiancé name Jose. A wise man. A once-prophet who fell in love with an unbeliever and the whole community never forgave them. And if it was real, then everything her fiancé had mentioned was already unraveling.

“Jesus, please, if You still can hear anything I say, anything, please, oh God, please hear me. It’s so cold out; everyone is really afraid. Oh God… Please.”

Nothing.

While We Were Yet…

Introduction: This story found its way into the book somehow. It carried no connection until a few stories later. I had always been interested in prison ministry and to date I have spent eight years serving inmates. The title While We Were Yet came from the scripture that Christ died while we were yet sinners. I took off the last word of that scripture to help the reader understand a horrible fate that sometimes happens…

The temperature gauge showed 104 degrees. It was desperately hot outside and the work made it hotter. I hammered the ground with my shovel and let out a sickening sigh. The heat rose from me like tormented souls and probably melted in mirages that drifted against the reality I could not escape. Far away I saw crows hovering and landing like black specks in the field. My fingers blistered against the wood of the handle. They clenched hard on the stick and brought the shovel into the dirt again and again. We still had three hours left. The field had to be broken down. We would be planting the seeds soon and those weren’t my seeds. And this wasn’t my field. This wasn’t even my shovel. The white sun pierced my brow with sweat that eased its way down the side of my face. Yet I could not feel the sun.

Trace memories of what the sun was like hid shyly in my mind. They felt around in the darkness that crushed against my spirit. I can’t see why the caged bird sings. If he did I would like to translate his song. Because I know what he really says in his heart.

The sound of the rock and soil cracking went down the line as inmate stood beside inmate (this was the closest we truly got) and pummeled the earth. There was no song today. Our songs died a long time ago. If we did sing they were just verses.

I wondered if this is what it sounds like when the rocks cry out. We were just a ways from the main unit. I pretended I was free from that hell, at least for a moment. The field went on, far from the razor wire and the cement and the iron bars. It was like looking into a freedom I could not have. I wanted to know if they were tempting us with this freedom.

I’m trying to see the beauty in it, Lord, but there’s no more color! I said in my heart, the place where I hid when it got really rough.

There was also no wind. There were no clouds. But I was grateful that I wore white. But that just reminded me that there was no color. That reminded me of a lot of things I missed in the free world, outside. The days passed on and I felt like I was standing still in them.

The ground refused to be broken. It just made me work harder. Down went the shovel again. I crushed my foot against its side and forced it into the earth. Beside me, twenty inmates heaved with their tools, breaking the soil and turning it. But we were alone. There are no friends in prison. No trust and for me especially, no love.

The innocence in his eyes is what got me. I watched him closely. The way his hair pressed against his head; the way he cocked his head to the left when he spoke. I watched the nervousness in his mannerisms. Even his shoes needed to be polished. I said nothing. I peered into his soul with my eyes, searching for hints of sincerity, maybe even love, but what I found only made me hide.

We were allowed visitors. He had come, I guess, from a ministry that wanted to reach people like me. I looked at the name tag he wore that said volunteer in bold red letters. It was crooked on his dusty brown polo that tucked itself neatly into un-ironed blue jeans.

Outside (where I longed to be but had almost forgotten what it was like) I saw the same sun that had looked down on me yesterday in the field. It peered into the visitor’s area. Glare bounced off the metal table tops and ricocheted off into the ceiling. I made shadow images in the light as the boy talked.

“So while we were yet sinners Christ died for us,” he went on. It had been ten minutes. He was going by the book. Ask me how I knew. He fumbled through the Word. But I was patient. His Bible was marked in yellow highlighter and blue and red underlining. It looked well read. Sinners... I knew the passage. I had read it to others once, a lifetime ago. Others talked and the mumblings sounded like dreamlike conversations of anything but here.

“What if we weren’t?” I replied. I was awakened from my little world. There was no sarcasm in my tone. Just an honest question.

“Weren’t what?”

“Weren’t sinners”

“We’re all sinners.”

“Really?”

“Well… The Bible talks about all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”

For the first time I think he saw me. Me. My black eye hurt. I pressed the palm of my right hand against it. The headache I got pulsated and the pain released into the air and found the other pains that had been dumped into our lives. Here pain left its stain on us in all forms: Loved ones gone, spouses left, and children growing up in the world fatherless. Years of our lives and the dead dreams all take their toll because of one too many mistakes. Well, for most of us.

“Look. What I mean is at some point in our life we all have sinned against a Holy God,” he said. “And there’s forgiveness.”

“I know Him.”

“You what?”

“I already know Him. It’s all right. You’re new at this, I can tell.”

“I’m s–“

“Don’t be.”

That’s when I saw his heart. The way he looked down onto the metal table that left fingerprints all along its top. Beside us were a few empty tables and then beyond them were more and then beyond them inmates sat and talked to the other evangelists that came by once every three weeks. I tapped my foot against the cold concrete. I knew it was cold because everything in here was cold. It was prison. The walls screamed out memories of a black hole that sucked all life away. I don’t think he went over this in his training. But this was hell. And sinner or not, if you were in here, you were in hell. He had hope on his side of the table, a hope he most likely took for granted. He could go into a mall or visit a loved one in a hospital. He probably had no real problems. I watched a bird land on the window sill to my left. It stayed for a few moments and decided to leave.

He could decide to leave. But he stayed for me. I rubbed my fingerprints into the table. I heard the iron gates slam in the background for the thousand-and-third time. It never got old. I tried not to get used to it. And it reminded me that one day far, far away I would only hear those gates slam in my nightmares. But I couldn’t see past one far. I didn’t even know if I could make it too far. Not for what they accused me of.

“How’d you get saved?” I asked him. It was a fair question. I know in prison the others would cater to someone who came in here. Not me.

“I was a child when I accepted the Lord into my heart.”

“So you grew up with His voice to comfort you. You grew up with His Word to help when you went through the dark times of your life.”

He relaxed. I was talking his language. He couldn’t talk mine but I was bilingual. He nodded. I went on.

“He’s real. It’s when you go through what I go through that you realize this. What I meant when I said… Never mind what I meant. What I’m saying is behind these walls the comfort’s thin. I live in a room the size of your master bath and I know who I serve. They got people in here so close to Him that they could be the next T.D. Jakes. But they’re here and he’s there. I’m here, you’re there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said don’t be. Just know that in here what we need is a little more love. Not preaching. People in here need to see it.”

The rest of the ‘interview’ went like that. For me it was a taste of heaven because I got to see someone.

“Crenshaw!”

My name; I knew what they wanted. But it was too late. Something hit me in the nape of my neck, hard. I fell like a sack of potatoes.

“Like to play with little girls?” A foot found my head. I felt like crazy blues and reds and fluorescent purples just slammed into my memories and then peeled off them quickly. I cringed and knotted together like an unborn child. Somewhere the thought of someone sleeping soundly and safely in their bed reminded me of my sentence. I never cried; I never shouted. I took it. Grunting and delivered blows caked thick with the hate and prejudice of a premeditated attack. I closed my eyes and prayed as hard as I knew. Then another foot found my stomach. I guessed it was a foot. It could have been anything. I lost track after that. This was in chapel after church service.

“Did it feel as good as this!?!”

“Quick man, someone’s comin’...”

“Naw, not yet; he’s got a few more left!”

They say it is better to tie a millstone around the neck of someone who harms little children and for that person to be thrown into the sea. That’s what they thought of me. Every once and a while I got thrown into the sea.

God.

I was in my cell.

Lord, I can’t take it.

No answer.

The beatings, Lord… I just can’t take it.

I mean, if I was guilty… All around me is darkness. I’d deserve it. You know my heart. I just can’t take it. If I say I’m innocent they’d just hit me more for thinking I lied.

More silence.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for sending the boy. He was a blessing.

What dreams will come

Introduction: This story weighs on me: The ever-after of the world from the passing dreams of the rapture. This story carefully dives away into the fears of the unknown. Does God’s Presence leave with us in Christ’s second coming? If so, evil would be unrestrained. Nightmares would take over reality. Fear would be normal; the reality of souls in warfare for their very own souls. Darkness, as a moonless night, would consume all and nothing would be able to feed the cravings of a hell to come. What would it look like if God had to call those who knew not His Son to know His Son to save what little was left? June, the waitress, finds her purpose in the midst of a fear that seems to not wane. To be honest, this story was written as a time capsule for those who found themselves on the other side of the timeline after the second coming, after the rapture.

I just stepped off the 6 when I turned into my newspaper and walked through the crowd of no names. How eventful, I thought, the Mets had just broken their four game losing streak. Their pitcher Limaz was new and on the rise. They’ll come up. Shoulders clipped mine coldly and I paid it no attention. The no-names followed each other like rats in a maze, all wearing the same midnight blue three pieces. They drummed through as I unfolded the pages of The Times. In the background the 6 roared to life and left into a black hole with fading fluorescent lights and outdated posters.

“Pardon me,” someone said as they brushed past. Too polite–I turned and noticed he wasn’t in a three piece but a white tee and denim shorts. He was in a rush but the crowd walled him in and he was left to find small gaps in the sea of midnight blues. A man dropped his briefcase because of him and papers scattered to the four winds like fluttering doves. And then the one in the tee looked back and I could see in his eyes a hollowness. It was like looking into the face of a dead man just one second too long and the penetrating stare moved to the soul.

Klackety-clack… Something sounded in my heart and echoed down the broken tiles and trash. The man in the tee turned back around quickly and pushed against the sea. All around the drones went unheeded down the halls, but I stared at the one who had passed me. He was looking around now, and his hollow eyes found mine again.

He’s coming, said a low voice, and turned away. There was no smile on the man’s face but a howl of a look. And he ducked against the crowds. I closed my newspaper, not frightened but aware. What had he meant?

Klackety-clack-clack… There it was again.

“Excuse me!” he was pleading now. But the sea’s tide grew against him and more people seemed to refuse to move. I was still in the movement of heads and shoulders as I watched the tee bob against the crowd. He was determined, I thought. But something about him hindered my smile for him. A train trudged through, stopped, and more people got off onto the already-crowded walkway. No. He’s not determined; he’s scared…

Klackety-clackety-clack… The sound had silenced the train and I noticed a blur of heads rise up from their sleep. And the white tee was moving faster, away from the sound, and I watched the hollowness in his eye as he turned again to me in despair. Something settled on me just then; an uneasiness, something that said silently without words, Run. But I was motionless in curiosity. The white tee was alive now, searching for a way out, and all I could do was watch.

“Get out of my way!” he screamed in fear. The heads refused to turn. They refused to bow. And his skinny arms raised up in defiance and he began to push people aside. Run... The lights in the subway flickered, died and then revived. When they awoke there was no one in the hall except him and me.

“I warned you,” he said.

“Where’d everybody go?” I asked in amazement.

“He doesn’t want them.” His hollow eyes caught me.

“Doesn’t want who?” I was flustered. “Talk some sense, man! What are you saying!?!”

Klackety-clack. This time it was much closer.

“It’s him.” He began to breath hard.

I listened. The smell of gunpowder wafted on the breeze.

“He’s called to this,” he said. “I warned you.”

Then it went black. The fluorescent lights must have failed again at 42nd Street. The sound of a subway train blew past and the wind from it blew past in the dark: a low neighing of a horse, the smell of gunpowder and then something, something close breathing down the nape of my neck…

And I awoke to the sound of the six o’clock news. My TV alarm–Good morning, Sam! My cat purred softly as I resurrected from my bed. The drapes were drawn and the sun was not yet up. I stole away into the kitchen of my two-bedroom apartment and heeded the sound of the percolator. Coffee: a single man’s best friend. No, I thought. I changed my mind. I felt a stir inside for some eggs and milk and I turned to my fridge. Nothing but old baking soda and four slivers of ham, molded bread and a swig of oj… Too single.

“In other news, Alexander Jaire’ is reported to have a solution for the mass genocides deeply rooted in Africa. After much deliberation, he plans to hold his peace talks in the cities greatest hit as a sign of strength…” the TV blared from within my bedroom. I looked up and felt an uneasiness in the sound of his name, yet dismissed it and found my clothes.

“‘God is by my side’ Alexander reported yesterday. Having won fame over his peace treaties in several nations, there is no doubt he can quell the brewing storm in Africa…”

God. I mused. My black skin shone under the cocoa butter and a sweet fragrance lifted the gunpowder smell. Gunpowder? I turned around to find the smell heavy through my home.

“At least I don’t hear no clackety-clack!” I smiled defiantly. Whatever that was, I thought.

I turned the TV off after rummaging for the remote hidden between my sheets. Sam, an orange and white mix, hopped off the bed and ran into the bathroom. Finding a bottle of Pledge, I sprayed it carelessly into the air. That’s a little better… at least now my home has that lemony scent! I slipped on my Nitche’ undershirt, placed a black and red tie about my neck and found my black Pierre’ Rodon blazer. My slacks went next, followed by my golden cufflinks and then black shoes.

Benny’s Diner was open 24-7 and I thought I’d steal a bite to eat before going in today. I had taken the 6 to 42nd and Kennedy and walked briskly amidst the smell of trash and liquor. The streets of New York contained soulless bodies, each with a destination in mind and only minutes to get there. I, on the other hand, stepped over sleeping homeless people and through a row of ties at the cross section. The sun was casting a 7 o’clock shadow from the nearby buildings, which draped over the sleepy eyes of many coat and ties. Taxis obeyed their horns, and an eternal honking was heard here and in the distance. I turned into the diner and found June the waitress in a checkered and red apron.

“Up and early.” Her smile brightened. “The usual?”

“No time.” Had I really said no to her steak and All-American omelet? “I just need two sunnies and a glass of milk.”

“From a cow, right?” she asked. Full of jokes, as usual. I had time for a laugh and gave a giggle.

“I think you should lay off from working here so much,” I said. “And loosen up that apron—I think it’s cutting off your circulation!”

She was up and running. I found a booth but decided on the bar. It lay across from the grill and the surge of my two eggs, which Elton had already started. I looked at the pictures of this hole in the wall diner. They had been placed beside the register and followed my eyes around. June thumbed her ring finger and then placed a flyer atop the events calendar board which hung neatly between the entrance and side window.

“She’s been having a Bible study now for a year,” a voice behind me said. I turned around (catching sight of the half-dozen pictures of various landscapes) and found my eyes in line with Elton, who was buttering up my toast.

I had heard her talk to many people about God and all, and I turned back to see the little woman coming in my direction. “She’s honest.” I liked honesty and so whatever she said I listened to—with a grain of salt, of course.

“Sometimes I think she’s too honest.” He placed my eggs before me on an off-white plate and my thumb circled its edges. Nasty habit. I went crazy if I didn’t do it.

“It’s not a Bible study,” she said, half-listening, and then walked past to a nearby customer. I was too tired to argue. She grabbed a pen from her hair and began to write down the woman’s order.

“We got a straggler, June,” Elton commented, “Outside the window.” I turned; so did she. Beyond the window and in the incoming sun was a man in a dirty white tee and denim shorts. His hands had left fresh prints all over the sill.

“No June,” I said, looking at my plate. Curiously I walked to the door. “I’ll handle it.”

I opened the door and eased out an elbow against the metal frame. “Comin’ in, man?”

His hair was a mess. His eyes were swollen and dirt sprayed his face like a pig in the mud. His eyes fell short of mine. “Thank you, sir.” I was gonna be late…

He ate like he had never eaten before and when he was finished with my plate and milk I found Elton giving this likable being seconds. “Thank you,” was all he said. He was cleaner in my dream.

He noticed my staring but paid no mind as he continued to swallow gulps of food. I had to go.

“Here June,” I pushed a five her way and smiled. “Take care of him for me.”

“This is a new side of you, Johnny,” she looked at my five.

“You save his soul,” I said with no sarcasm, “I’ll fill him up.”

“I am saved.”

I looked up. June did too. “What was that?” she asked.

“I am saved,” he repeated between swallows.

“From what?” I asked. Maybe he knew about my dream.

“From myself,” he answered.

“This has been happening a lot lately,” said Elton.

“What are you talking about?” The sun had slowly left my line of view through the window and its light etched the corner of booth three like it was clinging on for dear life.

“They just been coming in,” said June. “That’s why I started it.”

“Started what?” I continued to watch the morning glory.

“Her famous Bible study,” said Elton.

“Blessed,” June remarked below her breath. She thumbed her ring and went on, “It’s more of a network, really.” The couple in booth three got up and left a tip. June eased her way to it and slid the money into her pouch along her waist.

“People just been showing up here from the streets.” Elton handed another glass of milk to the man who had walked my dreams for the past three nights. “I don’t know why but they’ve just been coming in.”

“Miss June,” the little man awoke from his plate, “I think He’s proud of you.”

“I know.” It was a coded conversation. I left it alone because I was going to be late. I got up, slipped my remaining five to Elton, and said, “Just take care of him.”

I left the fire-popping grill and all its warmth and walked past June.

“It’s at 7:30 if you’re interested,” she said.

“Only if he’s there,” I said and walked outside. I was too late to say goodbye.

“Well, Mr. Welsse, did you know you had a meeting this morning?” Mr. Preston dodged my handshake and went right to business. “Have a seat.”

I sat down to my chair beside the big wigs and thought to myself, Yes sir, Mr. Preston, sir. I’m just not keen on lending bums money when they’ve been haunting my dreams. Or nightmares...

The day went on as the meeting walked through its usual list of to-do’s and what-nots. I listened, half-awake, as Mr. Preston laid the foundation to the new roads that his bank was attaining to. It would be interesting if I held more stock in the company but my roll of money forbade it. So I just paid attention the best I could, careful not to overwork my finger-pen displaying (I was pretending my pen was an acrobat on the trapeze of my palm). We sat for an hour before the Preston Bank and Loans meeting closed and we dispersed like rats with little clue. The others found solace in their papers, while I was left to alone with Mr. Preston. Mr. Preston, a tall, partially bald (I could never stop looking at his head) man near sixty, never stirred a crowd when he spoke. I watched the wrinkle of a man come to me and gently land a hand on my back in a much-respected yet slightly fatherly tone.

“A word, Mr. Welsse,” he had said after the meeting’s close.

“Yes, Mr. Preston.” He placed a comfortable arm over my shoulder.

“In the seven years you’ve worked for me,” I knew what was coming, “I’ve never seen you late.”

“I don’t know, sir,” I couldn’t tell him of the dreams, “I just haven’t been myself.”

“Be honest,” he said, “I want to help.”

I was standoffish.

“I’ve been…” I went on, “Have you ever felt like something big was about to happen?”

“Like what?” His hand went still against my shoulder.

“I don’t know. I just feel like I can’t share all.”

“I see…”

The office where he had held the slide show presentation was filled with windows. Beyond them you could see the dozens of offices that made up Preston Bank. People could be seen doing their duties, walking back and forth like worker bees. Their suits, highly priced, made me cringe at my less than expensive blazer and slacks. I looked over to the wall of fame, as I called it, a plaque with numerous parties who had found distinguished merit in this bank. I wanted a piece of this bank. I wanted it badly. That’s why I had never been late and it was interesting that he had always noticed. Mr. Preston, Jim on the tennis field, knew me best. I was his confidant. His strategies in running this company were like a chess master’s dream. Almost a hundred years’ stability: He had watched his father run it.

“John,” I knew he was concerned now, “no secrets.”

“Mr. Preston…”

“Let’s go someplace private.”

“Here is good,” I said.

“Is it the dreams?” he went on.

My eyes shot him a glance. How do you know about my dreams? “What was that?” I answered calmly.

“Those sounds you hear…” I watched him as he spoke. “It’s like something out of a horror novel.”

“I haven’t told anybody.”

“There’s more,” he said. “Alexander Jaire’ is making his move. What he plans to do will shock this world. You should be amazed at his gifts. You haven’t heard? These gifts… They are growing.”

“How do you know about my dreams?” I wanted to know.

“I only know of them.” His spectacles sparkled in the light. “It’s amazing what he knows, truly a sight!”

“Mr. Preston,” I began, “I’m curious…”

“John, I don’t know really. But something is happening. Something that either brings worlds together or tears at them to the soul.” He was poetic now. It was not like him. “But Alexander is on to something, something big. He’s been all over the economic community.”

“What are you saying?”

“His dreams make yours pale in comparison.”

I wanted to know what the horse was in my dreams. I wanted to know how I knew the Mets won the game they haven’t played today. I wanted to know so much. “What do you know of my dreams?”

“I know,” he half responded, his eyes distant, “I just think you’re at the crossroads of something historic for you.”

There wasn’t much else. I left at that.

That night I had found myself in Benny’s searching for answers, only to get more questions. The homeless were there and some others June had invited. I hardly found a seat. Elsewhere a glass of orange juice had fallen and Elton was doing his duties to clean it up. He bent down, still in his greasy apron, and saturated a towel with the glass pieces and orange juice. He rose slowly, positioned an orange cone near his feet and walked to the bathroom.

“Hey, Johnny!” June slipped a flyer into my hands. “You’ve come at a most opportune time! Look, an open seat!” She sat me beside a woman in her dingy brown sweatshirt and another homeless person who eyed me suspiciously—must have been my suit.

“Okay everyone!” June started. “Settle… Settle… Okay! You in the back! Yeah, you… Thank you. Hi everyone, my name is June, and I wanted to get started! Lemme just say welcome to Benny’s Diner, a comfortable hole in the wall where you can be yourself. Okay nobody’s laughing… Anyways, it’s just not like New York to have so many people show up at our diner for reasons unknown to them-”

“Wait a minute, June.” A black man stood up. He was dressed in his finest apparel, a gray windbreaker that was scored throughout with bits of cotton erupting from its sides. His pants were the same, a motley group of holes and dirty graffiti along the seams. “Now we come to you because we know that you got something we need—answers. Why is it I dream about this place every night?”

“How many of you have ever seen this place in your dreams?” June placed her hand in the air as an example. Dozens followed suit. “What happens next?”

“Well, I see,” said the woman beside me, “I see great lights hoverin’ over it like the Fourth an’ I ken tell it’s a safe place for me to rest.”

“I had a dream we were in a lifeboat and our ship was sinking,” said another.

“Mine was different,” said someone way in the back. He sat in front of a seascape painting and had to raise his voice so his words could carry. “Mine had that man Alexander in them. He was forcing something on our foreheads and we had to fight him for our life!”

“Yeah, man! What’s that supposed ta mean?” someone asked.

“I’ll save that for last. But all of you, like me are, omigosh, how can I say it? Our lives are at danger here. This is the great drawing. People are coming here because in the next few years something bad is about to happen. And I know a little of what it is.”

“It’s that man Jesus! I saw him in my dreams, I did. He warned me about it but I didn’t know. Now it’s his time. That man Alexander. He’s about to do something and the whole world will know it!” someone said. Their feathers must have been ruffled. Slowly he sat back down and the tension mounted.

“Miss June, what’s gonna happen to us?” asked a man in brown corduroys. He had spoken with his hand raised as if to ask a question and found his patience too short.

“I dunno, Charlie,” she smiled. “End of the world, I guess. Look, we all seen it comin’. I know I did. But here we are.” She was thumbing her ring again. “And nothing can hurt us if we know who He is.” She pointed to the flyer. For the first time I looked down to see a picture of a man on a cross.

“I hearda Him!” said the black man. “He came up and saved folk from their sins an’ all. How can he help us,. Miss June? He’s dead!”

“He was supposed to come back,” said my friend whom I had fed. “He was supposed ta.”

“And that’s what I’m here ta tell ya.” June looked into the floor tiling for her next words. “He did.”

The little diner grew silent. You could almost hear the white ceiling fans swooping air. Outside the sun had landed behind the surface and left us in the dark.

I listened that night as June brought news of the coming end. But I wanted to hear. Those dreams were too close for comfort. And already I felt a tug to know this great Prophet Christ. But I had stayed long enough. There was a train to catch and it was late. I motioned my departure to June and she smiled.

“Take it easy, Johnny,” she said. “Just follow your heart.”

I walked back to the subway station in the black of night. Taxis buzzed past. Lights drew bugs in this great city of New York. I felt alone for the first time in the darkness as I edged down the concrete walkway toward the 6. I looked down at my feet and traced the words written in chalk down the sidewalk. I was tempted to almost hopscotch through the squares that paved the road beside a Sonny’s, a rustic barbershop that had been around since my adolescence. It’s funny what one can remember, I thought as my eyes drifted twenty years back, when I was just a hood on these streets. The sun was brighter then, as it always is in your memories, and I thought that I could almost touch its rays on my cheek. Then a voice brought me back to reality and the smell of dirt and grime from beyond where trash cans loomed raised a stench in my nostrils.

“Johnny?” the voice had said. I turned around. It was my friend whom I had fed. He was no taller than my shoulder and he stood before me, scratching at his chest with his right hand. He was filthy.

“Hey man,” I started, “don’t go scarin’ people like that; it’s almost midnight!”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I just wanted to thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it.” I was almost to the subway. What was I was thinking? “I could use the compa-”

Suddenly there was a tremor and the sound of something. Something big that went boom in the night called me to look toward the station.

“It came from down there!” I said. Immediately I ran toward the trains; all the while the cries and curses of metal grinding against metal split the midnight sky open like rain. I got to the stairs and a wave of heat plumed upward and I could not enter. People were running up the stairs screaming.

“It’s the 6! It just exploded!” someone in a white beret said. She was covered in soot and gasped for air in her white dress and matching heels, which she carried in her hand.

“Is there anybody down there?” Stupid question. Immediately I dove for the stairs. A train horn blared in the dark as the lights faded in and out with Morse code timing. Bodies were sprawled out everywhere.

“Oh God…” I wanted to cry as I found a family of four rummaging through the charred remains of the 6.

“My baby! Oh Lord, not my baby!” the mother screamed. I sprinted through the dust and the smoke, past the 6 with its windows shattered and ablaze, and came to a mother in tears. She was stooped over a heap of metal as a baby cried softly beneath it. I tore at the sheets and wire that sparked to life and then died. My hand gripped the live wire and gently set it aside.

“He’s all right!” I cooed as I lifted a piece of metal from a blue and white baby stroller. The others closed in before me and they began to tremble with relief.

Ambulances and fire trucks and police cars noted the scene. My friend (his name was Jarel) stayed with me until three that morning, when I called a taxi to go home.

“Had I not stopped you…” Jarel said quietly as I watched two officers pull body bags away from the station. One side slipped and fell to the ground and the cop looked around to see me staring. He gave an awkward smile as he slowly picked up his end.

“I know,” I said, “I should have been dead.”

“You’ll live,” he wondered aloud. “You’ll live and not die. I read that once.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s in the Bible. It means there’s still a purpose.” He got up and dusted his filthy shorts.

“Well, my taxi’s here. I better get going. Good thing tomorrow’s Saturday. I can sleep in.”

“Johnny,” Jarel moved closer, “you’ll live.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Jarel.” I was lost.

The taxi slowed to a stop and the guy inside lowered his window. “You Wellse?” I nodded and looked to Jarel.

“He’s watching you, Johnny,” he said as I stood up.

“Yeah, I know.” Was that an affirmation? “Just pray for me.”

“C’mon buddy, I ain’t got all night!” the taxi man spat as I neared him.

“Yeah, yeah, hey cabbie,” I climbed in the back seat and saw the cabbie punch the meter. He nodded at me in the rearview, “Mets win tonight?”

“Yeah man, six to three.” He sped off. “Why, you bet money?”

“I shoulda.” I took one last look at the wreck and sighed. It could have been me.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of my TV alarm. Sam had perched obediently beside my head and was pawing at my chin. I wondered if she was trying to steal my breath like in those old movies, but faded into the sounds of the television.

“And the Mets are back after breaking their losing streak. Limaz toasted manager Lamar Burton with a glass of Cherry, saying, ‘The playoffs are right around the corner!’” The anchorman never saw it coming. The remote zapped him into oblivion and I laid still. Good, I thought, no gunpowder.

I arose three hours later, at around ten that morning, got dressed and took a cab to Benny’s Hole in the Wall. Heh.

I walked in nonchalantly and asked for the usual, to which June responded, “Got time, bub?” I cracked a smile but then remembered what happened the night before.

“It was terrible,” I said with a look of fear in my eyes.

“You were there?” she asked. Elton took the order and began to do his magic. I nodded sullenly.

The diner was filled with midnight blue suits who ate to themselves. “I don’t know how many but a lot of people were killed. One of them shoulda been me.”

“You’ll live,” June said and I looked up. She was serious. June was never this serious.

“You okay, June?”

Outside a horse neighed, followed by a snort, and I looked at June. I remembered my dreams and sat still. Probably a cop on horseback, I thought. June slowly walked to the window and drew the blinds until it was almost dark inside.

“You leave him alone,” she whispered, thumbing her ring on her left hand.

“June,” I said gravely. The midnight blues all rose simultaneously and walked slowly toward the door. Wake up, I thought. I was uneasy.

“The Lord says you have a purpose, Johnny.” She was too serious. “Purpose...”

The little light in the diner heightened her features. She, in her checkered apron, slowly turned to her Bible. “It’s here, Johnny. You don’t need to look anymore.”

“Look? For what!?”

“Answers….”

Something beat against the windows and the floor shook. There, silhouetted against the blinds, stood a horse and rider. It reared on its hind legs and then settled down. Jesus, I thought… Gunpowder breathed in the room. It eased faintly into a reality that slowly overcame the smell of sausage and eggs. I went numb and I knew he felt it.

“Back spirit!” June cried. The horse reared again and June went to the blinds. Immediately they were raised and we saw death sitting on a horse. His eyes were a fiery white, bearing no pupils. All the same, he stared at me. Upon him was a great breastplate, pale of color, and smooth, with no marks or etchings. He was almost covering all the windows, bending slightly to peer in. Was he laughing? I watched him stand triumphantly. He clenched his reins with one hand, with a great sword lowered in the other. The midnight blue suits around him were slain. Some moved still. He stared at me hauntingly with a want in his soul that called to me openly. I’m coming. He spoke those words without moving his lips. Wake up, I thought.

It tried to shatter the windows of Benny’s Diner but every move toward it warded it back farther.

“This is holy ground spirit! Holy! Go!” June was authoritative. The beast was submissive. I only listened in awe. The horse, great in its own right, moved back. Hair swayed in a mane that shimmered slightly black and blue. It hissed and neighed but was obedient. I for a moment burned its gaze into my mind. This creature looked deathly patient. And then it faded against the clouded day and leaned closely to the window until the horse’s snort heaved fog against the glass. Wake up!

At that moment I rose from my slumber, soaked in sweat, with Sam lying down at the foot of my bed. I had to see June…

“So he’s here.” June peered at me in wonder. She fell into her Bible and I glanced at her hands reading the heading of every page. Revelations. “This is who you saw.”

I read and then paused.

“I know, I know, but just think,” she went teary. “People spend their existence in the dark, waiting for that spark. I knew it is no accident we are here. I wish I had known sooner, before all this, but I keep looking ahead. Truth burns in me now. This great puzzle of life is turning, shifting, waiting and turning more. Who knows why He chose you? It is time you believed.”

“If He’s real, then tell me why?” I wanted more. “My boss turns to me the other day and knows things about me I’ve never told anyone!”

“That’s part of it.” June was still looking, staring away from me. She thumbed her ring on her finger. “Jose, it’s almost time.”

“…Part of what? June, girl, look at me!” I snapped my fingers and she turned slowly to me. A tear spoke.

“Johnny, I’m not sure but,” another tear, “I’d beware of your boss. Did he mention how he knew those things?”

“He called them gifts,” and then, “and he said Alexander Jaire’ had greater ones…”

“Now there’s the name we should all fear.” She tilted her head and wiggled her ring until it slid into her palm.

“He knew about the dreams.” I watched her study her ring and then slide it back onto her finger. “He said Jaire’ was making his big move.”

If that didn’t catch her attention, I don’t know what would. “What did you say?” she asked. Her tear had melted into the Formica covering on booth six and she wiped it away with her thumb.

“He wouldn’t say.” I stared at her Bible, “I’m ready, though. I heard you pray that sinner’s prayer with the homeless the other night. I need Him. This Jesus, June, I need Him.”

June smiled the biggest grin I had ever seen of hers (and they were all big), and she wrapped her ivory hands over mine. “Johnny, all you gotta do is ask!”

So with that I did. I felt no wave of peace, though I wanted to. I didn’t see any signs. And the sun didn’t move. I just knew somehow that I had found something, something worth dying for.

“This is what I want to show you.” She turned into Revelations. “‘When He opened the fourth seal, I heard a voice of the fourth living creature saying, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse,’” she looked up. I was certain she was terrified. “If this is true then a lot of people are going to die… ‘And the name of him who sat on it was Death and Hades followed with him. And power was given to them over the fourth of the earth to kill with a sword, with hunger, with death and the beasts of the earth.’”

“The train wreck.”

“That was nothing.” She closed the Book. “Your boss knows something I need to know. I need to know what Jaire’ is planning to do.”

“What is he supposed to do?” I asked.

“That was prophetic,” June said. Elton walked by with two plates of sandwiches and smiled. She grew grave like the dream. “Simple, heh, he’s supposed to rule the world.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Thank you.”

“June,” I was already stepping out, “one more thing. Who’s Jose?”

She beamed, showing her ring. “Ask me in Glory.”

I said nothing. She noticed and laughed at her secret, looking like she had just caught wind of a shooting star. And I left.

Mr. Preston sat calmly at his desk, a stoic statue of a man chiseled with wisdom. I still looked up to him.

“Something told me you were coming by,” he started without saying hello. “Have a seat.”

I sat. The chair was too comfortable.

“You want to know about Alexander.” I went uneasy at his words.

“Mr. Preston…”

“Jim.”

“Jim.” I was shaking inside. He noticed. “Jim, I had a rough week.”

“I woke up this morning, John, and I felt better than I had had in years. You want to know why? Because I have a purpose.”

“What was that?” The room was filled with windows. I looked through one of them to see Jill, his secretary, shredding some documents.

“Do you know what I see, John?” She was still shredding documents when he lowered the blinds. “I see America in a new light. So does Alexander Jaire’. Imagine a unity where people won’t have to worry about their capital. A trust, John—Alexander’s on the verge of something.”

“You told me. Something big…”

“No John.” He stiffened up and then poured a cup of coffee into a little Styrofoam cup. “Not something big… Something worldwide…”

The desk where he now sat, a beautiful mahogany, turned to ashes in my heart. I looked at the fine lamp that spoke once of elegance… How I at one time would sell my soul for a lifestyle like this. Mr. Preston a fine tuned man noticed my desires.

“It can be yours, Johnny.” Johnny? “All you got to do is want it.”

“I believed that for so long. But I found something that is priceless. Something greater than all the money in the world.”

“Belief?” he laughed, a dry snarl of a laugh that turned bitter in its end. “I know you found something; it’s been told. But He left us with the rest of those Christians.”

“You’ve sold your soul,” I whispered to myself.

“The mark Alexander will bring will prove it. That man’s life can rest on merit and success. What a man gets he owns. And what a man owns serves him. Why serve God when you can become him?”

“What mark?” I waited.

“This one.” He revealed his right thumb. There, imprinted on it, was the sign of a raven. “It’s the first of many. I traveled all the way to Alexander to get it. With it my money can be safely stored away. It promises a one-world currency. That’s what He gets for taking my Cynthia.”

“Your wife.” I had heard stories. They say he went mad for months when she disappeared. He came back to work with a scowl of a look and fumed at religion.

“Yes, I did go mad.” His insight again caught me off guard. “Because I had lived a good life and Cynthia was all I had.”

Mr. Preston closed a manila folder and shrank back into his seat. Rich wood colors made up his office. His bookshelf couches and other items rested in oak, cherry, and cedar among others. I began to ask myself what I had to do in this life. What was it that I was for? Mr. Preston glanced at his watch. He was patient always. I wondered what he wanted of me.

“I’m glad you asked, John.” That was scary. “If you only knew what was coming you would cry out to me.”

“What’s coming Jim?” It was more of a statement than a question. I really didn’t care. Now all the woods in his office were turning to ashes. “What could I want that you have?”

Mr. Preston smiled with little warmth. “I’ll tell you at a cost.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I tell you then you have to make a choice, John.” His eyes went cold.

“It’s the end of the world, Jim,” I said, “we have few good choices left.”

Stillness… We looked at each other and then I turned to his thumb. “I don’t know how you can read my mind, Jim, so I’ll be blunt—honest, really—I don’t see anything that you could do to me that could be worse-”

“You’ll be fired, Johnny,” he said, “and without the security of Alexander you’ll wander the streets of New York like your new friends.”

I stiffened up a bit. He saw and smiled. And then I knew what he wanted. “You want me to-”

“Yes.” I wondered if he had read my mind. But it was really simple. Now I knew that he needed me.

“I’m still an asset to your bank.”

“And a close friend. But what I need is locked up inside you. You were born to lead. With you this bank will survive economic failure on a worldwide level. Stability, John—we both need it.”

“I won’t.”

“Before you decide, picture with me something. Without the mark you won’t be able to buy food. Your savings could last you some months but you’ll end up searching for a job you can’t find and looking for anything that can hold you together.”

“You need me to help turn others…”

“You’re a natural. People listen to you, John. You’ll save thousands.”

“From what? Themselves?” I smiled now.

“I missed that question.” He was perplexed.

“You can’t buy me. Because there are things that I know too…”

He hesitated. I wanted him to read my mind because this battle of wits was irritating.

I got up from my seat and walked to the door. Turning around, I said, “I’ll never take that mark. And you’ll never see her again.” I wasn’t being hurtful. I just drew a line. And he sat behind his desk in front of it, not moving.

I closed the door behind me.

Eye hath not seen

Introduction: Eye hath not seen came through the twist of a previous story, called While We Were Yet. It is an intelligent story, humorous at times, but bold in its own right. It is fascinating to me the stories of bravery we will hear in heaven after such a period of not darkness but blackness. Eye hath not seen invites the reader to see glimpses of the two prophets who are to come. It probably will be a lot darker, and nightmarish even. This perspective leaves hope for the Christians in that Christ’s return comes before the tribulation. Some hope for pre-tribulation and prepare for post.

This is the story of a murder following the tribulation period on earth.

Cassia was born Destiny Cassia Crenshaw some time after the great disappearance of the remnant of God’s people. Her mother bore her in excruciating pain and later she was dubbed a miracle baby whose twin had not the strength to live, since they were both premature. Cassia’s sister Rein lived only 20 minutes, long enough to change the state of New York, long enough to change the world. It had been a number of years since the great disappearance. And then walked in the Two… Their appearance was not expected. Some had looked for Moses, others for Elijah. But their lives were not enwrapped in sackcloth, but in mourning and tears. When they saw Cassia, barely even three, at one of their healing encounters, they were troubled. A burden went heavy on the two. The son of one saw it in his father’s eyes. And the father sensed the pain of an unseen God. And this is the story from then hence.

“There is a call on this one.” One of the two drew a hand gentle but close to the eyes of a blind little girl. She wore a scarlet dress with red ribbons in her sandy brown hair, ribbons that knotted into bows to match the red flowers on her size three little shoes. Her shoes knocked nervously at the sound of the loud man with the talking stick whom she could barely sense (after all, anything behind the large sound boxes that spoke were more like a whisper and her ears were already being overwhelmed at that point), and she could only tremble. Not even a blink did the girl move, but she remained almost stationary, unnaturally reverent for a child of three. Things like that the older man with the talking stick caught (along with a head that popped in and out like a pendulum from behind her mother). While the girl tugged like an anchor against her mother, her mother continued to shake uncontrollably, eyes closed, arms raised in high praises toward the heavens. Above, the sky was a patchwork of darkened blues, dying peaches and yellowy-oranges, a residual amount of light at most that exploded the large bulbs with sensory triggers sitting atop the high towers, sending blinding light all over.

Central Park at that one moment all recoiled backward, every one of the million or so souls present. Everyone save the little blind girl, who seemed fine just behind her mother. Those in front, the ones nearest to the fire of God in the crowd, caught her motionlessness. She was authentic. Her blindness showed. Then the little girl tugged harder and when her mother didn’t respond she whispered, “Mama?”

The woman pushed her hands up higher, calling out in thanks over and over to His Name, pleading and crying, jolting and even whispering. The crowd hushed.

“She’s been blind since birth,” someone said in a microphone before the two men of God. The two said nothing, watching the girl who seemed oblivious except for shaking in her knees and wiping away tears with her free hand (her other hand still laid wrapped around her mother’s off-white little dress).

“Baby,” said one of the Prophets, “do you want to see?” Cassia nodded sheepishly as the one who spoke to her brought his hands over her eyes. He said, “The Lord has promised a healing in her… Stand with me and see the Salvation of the-”

“Wait!” the older man said. His hand grabbed the other’s wrist. He began to look over the little girl and then he said, “This one…” There was a pain in the air. A pain only a few may have felt, those sensitive to His touch. But many of the millions watching from their metal brown seats could sense something, but what, they could not say.

“I am praying!” the son said, hushed and away from the microphone. He looked into his father’s eyes. And the father said, “There is a destiny in this one.”

All of a sudden the Lord seemed to saturate the child’s mother and she, full of faith, came to and said, “Yes Lord! Her name- it’s Destiny!” Some of the millions went in awe in God’s presence. The pain lingered for a moment and then hid itself again, leaving some in their seats lifting their eyes, wondering and then shaking their heads no or simply dismissing it.

“Momma!” said the girl Cassia Destiny. “What is all the noise? Is Jesus really mad at me?”

“No, child,” the younger one soothed. Then he wrapped his hands around her eyes and said, “In the name of Jesus… Be healed!”

As he was speaking the other, the older said, “No, no devil-”

But it was too late. Everyone seemed caught up in the moment. The cameras whirred and they flashed, lighting up the crowd up for a few seconds. The two seemed to disagree. It was something few others noticed. But the mother, who was right there, listened.

The next morning in a small hotel James, the younger of the two, found his father in deep intercession. The room was flooded with a haze of Glory.

“She still is blind,” he said.

“Next time, son,” his father said, “you listen to me.”

The papers that morning went all over New York. The words haunted the two men when they read Little girl lay unhealed at healing convention in front of millions. Doubts of authenticity leave crowd divided. Is this Jesus real? And if so is Alexander…

Before the next night, ambulance lights spun in a small alley not far from Benny’s Diner in the early hours of the morning. June, the waitress, had been working that early shift to raise money for her road trip. She was the first to hear the gunshots. She was the first to hear the screams. She was the first there, behind Kennedy Street, to see a little girl with her eyes closed touching a woman’s face. When June got there before the ambulance, the first thing she noticed, besides a strong Presence of the Lord, a faint fragrance of myrrh and the clapping of feet leaving the scene, was the little girl’s movements.

She seemed as though she was feeling her way around the dead woman, with her hands and tears falling onto her pale face, all the while screaming and crying, “Please Mama, please wake up!” The street lights, the alleyway, its smell of trash from an overfilled dumpster, laid the backdrop for the scene. Just around dawn the sun’s rays began to permeate from between the buildings into the little alley.

June, the waitress from her small diner, had recognized the little girl on the TV suspended just above the smoky grill by the bar. Also, Benny’s was a place which many came in to read a few of the complimentary New York Times newspapers.

“Oh dear-” June hadn’t finished when the girl startled her by looking at her. She can see me? June thought. Instinctively June put out her hand to help raise the child from the breathless body. The little girl cocked her head a little and then put out her hand, fumbling a little but coming nowhere near June’s.

“Angel?” the girl asked.

June was silent.

“Are you?”

“Chil’ I’m here.”

“You must be! Mama says angels watch over us.”

“I’m not much an angel… But if I was wouldn’t I have win-”

“Angels know my name… Mama says all the time angels know us!”

June wondered… The little girl could not be older than four. So well did she speak…

“Mama’s asleep, darling.”

“Will Mama wake? The man with the talking stick says she’s bessed to have me… Bessed to know I got a meanin’. I’m not mean, am I?”

“We better get you safe… … Uh no, no, you’re not mean! With a face like yours, you should be the angel.” June caught the little girl’s smile.

“Mama’s just sleepy. The bad mans tried to get me… Said they wanted me cuz I’m eble.”

“Eble?”

“Yeah, said I do bad things. Making people think God’s people are bad.

She must mean evil. June listened.

“’n Papa don’t have a job… So Mama has to rest cuz she works on two jobs. Tha’s why Mama is sleepy, right angel? Right?”

June, her knees wetting through her black slacks as she knelt down, removed her greased, stained apron and gently, very gently, embraced the little girl warmly.

“Mama, wake!” Strangely the girl seemed to keep her eyes closed all the while June prayed and prayed and prayed. But these last days had been hard on her. With a bear hug around Destiny (she recalled her name from the New York Times), she thumbed her engagement ring, turning it over and over. Had she done this so many times lately that it became more of a worry than a nervous action? How she missed him. The darkness seemed to grow. Had others known it? Could they tell? Was it her gift from Jose, the Lord, somehow? June exhaled, a rail of thoughts streamed through her consciousness, leaving only questions. Her fiancé had told her these things would happen. She had been left behind. And still she thought of him.

“Darling angel.” June never spoke this caring, never. She continued, “Daughter, I know He seems far from you but He’s here! God is still with us!”

“Angel? Did Mummy leave? Why, Angel?” Little Destiny wailed after that.

About this time the ambulance came, first its loud lights that circled and circled, followed by the rev of its engine and the squeak of its rear doors. The lights seemed to confuse little Destiny, who shielded her eyes and yet curiously would peep through her tiny fingers.

June thought to herself that this little girl seemed to glow with God’s glory. Actually, it seemed like she radiated like the sun with such a glory, to a degree that June could feel the darkness tremble. It had been a while since she had laid down cursing. It was tempting to pick it up tonight.

They strapped Destiny down, using orange ties inside the ambulance. Her mom was covered over with black plastic, which failed to keep the little girl from looking toward her. How pitiful, thought an unnerved June, still thumbing her ring as she slammed shut the ambulance door.

June didn’t leave until the ambulance’s sirens were a whisper and the lights had long been consumed by dark shadows. And she stayed there until every street lamp, even the one with the erratic flickering, went off just at dusk.

“Heads will roll over this…” She pulled her golden locks into her burgundy scrunchy and wrapped the end in a bun. Then she went to work.

Carl Sterling arrived early at Benny’s Diner, armed with a pen and steno pad. He said nothing for thirty minutes, leaning on his elbows over a now-cold cup of coffee. June knew him from hello. But he wasn’t a regular. He locked eyes once with June and that made June very uncomfortable. She continued to wipe down the crusty orange juice glasses with a stain-streaked white cloth. She had seen him on the late night news and rumor had it he was ruthless, a wolf in a three-piece with a lamb’s cry-like ruthless. From then on June avoided eye contact. She knew what he wanted.

After another ten minutes, his patience was lost to an indifferent look and a cold shoulder with a tainted smile that was read a mile away. Carl, waving June down, could wait no further. He said, “June ____?”

“Mr. Sterling…” June said. She too held a pad. Lifting it up, she said, “What’ll it be? Sunny side up?”

“Destiny Cassia Chiles… Three and a half years old, born blind to a now-murdered mother… Now can see and it was said that you were there…”

“Funny, I don’t remember anyone telling…”

“Funny…”

“Benny’s special?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said Benny’s special. It’s a favorite of mine. You should try it.”

Mr. Sterling, already in a most impatient mode smiled (almost), with his eyes looking out the leaning blinds to a rising sun. “I’d love it,” he said, gritting his teeth.

June smiled back (almost), reached into her pocket and fished out a pencil with a stub for an eraser which was the size of her little finger and with it inscribed something on her pad and then, with a coy smile, glanced around and bit her lower lip, then set her face like a flint completely into Mr. Sterling’s demanding presence.

“On the house, Mr. Sterling… This ones on, well, me.” She walked away with a nonchalant air and a small giggle covered over by a faked cough.

Mr. Sterling, as stiff as his name, gave an awkward smile and then lightly laid down his little pad. He couldn’t help but tap impatiently on its maroon cover, scratching at it nervously. Maroons were soothing colors, but that was irrelevant to him. Anyone who would visit his town home might be surprised at the amount of incense sticks, aroma therapy candles and oil burners.

June returned with a cup of cold coffee and a Benny’s special. June left a smile and an angry Mr. Sterling, completely soiled in runny egg yolk and cold grits. On the booth lay a ticket with June’s handwriting saying “on the house”.

Mr. Sterling jumped up, yelled and cursed, storming his way out. June’s eyes glistened with joy, thinking this surely would be the highlight of her morning.

The next morning’s paper read “Little girl finds sight as mother found dead in alleyway”. Somehow we must bring into account her sight and her struggles with it… Like, does she dream? What is it that she sees and what is it that she doesn’t see?

I see colors when I sleep!

While the murder was still being investigated, a little girl, once blind, was exploring a new world. The country was safe. No reporter, no one for miles. Only a view of heaven’s best on earth, all for little Destiny to see for the first time.

“Mama had this color on when she fell asleep.” Destiny patted the crimson color of the little flowers that made up her dress. Doctor Moore found himself sitting on a jagged splinter, got up, and then smoothed it away. The wood steps that made up the front of his porch were probably the most threatening thing for a good mile.

“She had three flowers on her that blossomed much like these!” Destiny said.

Mr. Moore smiled. His smiles had always been welcome to others but a test to him. But she was a blind girl who could now see. And according to his homework, all she could see would be pretty much a kaleidoscope of moving colors. The three flowers were blood spreading on her white dress. He had seen the Crusade on TV. He had followed the news. For a moment Dr. Moore stared into the beauty of his front yard. He was a simple man, faithful to a wife of thirty years, and yet unsaved.

“That!” she said. Dr. Moore jumped. He turned about to find little Destiny rearing back in laughter. She said, “Gotcha!”

Doctor Moore was up very late that night rummaging through old books, some from his college era, some before. His hands surgically pried through a legacy of books from him, his father and even his grandfather.

Still nothing… Repositioning old spectacles (not unlike his father), his index finger trailed down and across, down and across. Down and… There.

“Crenshaw, Crenshaw, Crenshaw…” a voice.

From beneath a pillow a head moved and eyes squinted into the light that squeezed between the worn iron bars. He had heard about his wife, now his daughter Destiny. No one noticed the bare walls. No one questioned him. Everyone knew. And everyone hated him. It was a curse that they fully believed he deserved.

“Crenshaw!”

He rose with a fire, fists balled, teeth gritting. Ready. Ready.

He snarled a response. The gate sounded and then a jerk and then the bars slid open. He braced. What happened next was a miracle. The guard smiled and said, “Innocent. Get your things…”

If a penny could be heard striking the concrete, it was then. Those who knew him well were cursing inside. Those who left him for dead were awestruck. It appeared all were wrong. All save Crenshaw.

Destiny and doctor…

“Can you tell me what you see?” Dr. Moore held out an inkblot before Destiny, who seemed to be more interested in the sunlight beaming through off-white blinds. Her head wobbled back toward the sound of Dr. Moore’s voice, magnificent blue eyes failing to focus, failing to comprehend, failing. But even this found her doctor highly interested. Destiny’s hands trembled and slowly found the edges of the white card inkblot. She smiled in awestruck wonder, revealing pearly whites, silver caps and even a front tooth gap. Picture of innocence, cited the little man behind the inkblot card. With a free hand he scribbled something on depth perception and then more scrawling of question marks and exciting little jots only doctors could read. However, Dr. Moore found her feeble attempts to read astonishing. He had watched how her ears perked to the sound of a blue jay whistling in the rustling pines and up to the drone of the air conditioner and then to the slight tap of his black shoes on the wood paneled floor. She caught everything, as did he.

“Did you do that?” asked a curious little girl. Before an inquisitive, learned mind like Doctor Moore could respond, Destiny’s little hands went toward the floor and then her body followed. There a spider stopped alertly in its tracks. Destiny mimicked her new friend by being still as a statue. Dr. Moore’s eyes smiled, he scribbled a little more, then he went to put away the ink-blot.

“More flowers!” said the little girl, her thoughts horridly running back to her mother, remembering the color which ran so richly from her fatal wounds. Dr. Moore’s attention shot toward her, he curiously followed her gaze, and he let out a scream.

He jerked up from his chair and slammed his arms around the inquisitive little girl and placed her safely atop his desk. Destiny, who mentioned something about the spider being the wind, pushed aside a mess of papers and pens and pencils until the clutter only looked more cluttered.

“Dat!” smiled a little elated Destiny.

“That is something very bad,” Doctor Moore, considered not telling Destiny how dangerous a black widow really was and at the same time making a mental note of her understanding of colors.

“That!” she corrected, and Destiny’s whole hand shot out in the direction of the spider, which slowly crawled under the little brown sofa and down the vent that hid there, leaving Doctor Moore to watch to see her hand not tighten to point.

There was a knock on the door and June opened it. A little man beneath a wispy toupee carried himself well alongside a smiling Destiny.

“Hello my Angel,” said Destiny. Her little hands had covered her eyes, leaving a cute little nose and an innocent grin. And dimples, heavenly dimples that seemed to almost curtsey all by themselves. Destiny said, “You smell nice, Miss June! Like the wind!”

The little man introduced himself as her psychiatrist with an extra dose of politeness. But his smile was genuine. June may have been a waitress at a little coffee shop on street which was always busy but she knew people. She was good with eyes, terrible with names, but with smiles, like his, she smiled back. These were the end days and his smile seemed sunny.

“Yes-,” said June. She ran her hand through her hair, realized its moppiness and then ran it through again while twisting a pencil through to hold it. The doctor said nothing, noticed her completely black attire, gave a look and then hid it. Observant, thought June and tallied it in her mind, along his overly-shined dress shoes and strict posture.

“It’s true… I mean I couldn’t believe it with my own e- I me- Oh, no pun, but…”

June’s eyes lit up and she cracked another smile.

“You Sun me!” Destiny put her hands in front of her and waved them around until June knelt beside her on one knee. Destiny grazed her lips and said, “Smele!”

“She means-” the little doctor started.

“Yes, I know,” said June, seemingly oblivious to the little man, and gathered the little flower of a girl in her arms and embraced her like an old friend, a dear old friend who smiled likewise.

June watched her, the little girl who could now see. She had grown fond of the little doctor, the little girl had, whose name was Destiny. His amazement left him in awe, captivated by the smallest things she did, from matching a banana in June’s kitchen to her yellow mittens that hung on the rail over her oven. And the way she scratched it against the cloth, thinking the colors would wear off. The days went by… The little girl had dreams; she played and she watched like she was in heaven, appreciating everything her little retinas could absorb until she met her mother’s killer.

Mr. Crenshaw had heard his little Destiny was under the care of the State. He had never touched her, just a run of bad luck in the finances, not to mention the pain of having a lost father. He should have listened to him. What luck… a memory engraved into the very psyche of his being. That fatherly advice was now his first memory in the morning and the last at night. His wife, bless her soul, had more patience than him. She also caught on pretty quick. This Jesus fellow excited her, even through the fear that blanketed the whole world. She’d die for him. That is what she always seemed to say; that was what her first memory was in the morning and the last at night. Until she heard of the two… … Crenshaw worried about his daughter from behind the bars and watched her spectacular fifteen minutes of fame on TV.

He looked up, just as the channel was changed by a gruff-looking con, and he said, “Oh God…”

“Angel June… … Jesus! Jesus!”

“Oh dear, do you see that?”

“She can’t…”

“But she is!”

“Daughter, chil’, look up, sweetie! Look at us!”

“I seen Him, Miss June… He painted pictures in here!”

“Inconceivable…”

“In your head He did?”

“Impossible… Really…”

“No! When my eyes rest at night tha’s when He comes to me and says hello!”

Patiently the little doctor adjusted his spectacles leaned in closer to the painting of the Christ and whispered something inaudible to June and Destiny. Something in awe but still very reflective.

“Only… No, Miss June, it can’t be…”

“Why chil’? Why can’t it be?”

“He isn’t really that white… Kinda more taller too but not that white.”

Suddenly someone rapped on the door. The voices were muffled slightly but just audible enough for Destiny to turn. She gave a look which failed to escape June, who already was unlatching the deadbolt. And then a scream! Startled, June, about to turn the knob, leaned into the peephole when the door slammed her against the wall. She hit hard and went out like a light as two men pushed their way in, heads covered and gloves balled into fists. One hit and the doctor caved in, falling to the ground knees first, then his head shattered the glass table which sat just below the picture of Jesus. Destiny closed her eyes and began to feel around as if in a foreign country, lost. Two strong arms scooped her up and she went mad, finding one glove and biting into it, screaming and kicking while a little snarl of a laugh seemed to hiccup from her assailant.

“Remember us?” A grin seemed to appear from the stocking.

“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”

“He died a long time ago… A long, long time ago!”

“No sir, no sir, you’re wrong. I’ve seen Hi-”

“Shuddup, you little cuss!”

“Lemmebe, leemmebe!”

“Johnny-”

“No names… Not just yet.”

“She knows, she knows! If we cut her. We’ll never-”

“… I know that, you idiot! I just wanted to make her squeal… Like her momma did.”

“Momma?”

“Dear God, she’s looking at me!”

“She can’t put it together; trust me, your nose might as well be your eye, you ‘ol coot; haven’t you been reading the papers? She can see but she can’t.”

“So how will she know?”

“You don’t get it… Her dad, he will know. It couldn’t have been better timed… Sucker gets off scot free and we…”

“Papa?”

“Shh…!”

“Papa!??!”

“Geez, how we shut her up now!?”

“Hurry, it’s getting dark outside. We got cover. Oh, the note! The note, don’t forget it!”

“There!”

“Papa! Help! Jesus! Miss June! Bad, very, very bad!”

As quick as they came, they left, like a bad twister finally appeased. leaving nothing in its wake. The girl was gone. June and the Doctor both woke up separately.

“Oh God, they took her,” June said.

“What’s this?”

“A ransom note?”

“No… Oh, dear.”

“What?”

“It’s from her mom’s killers.”

“How can you tell?”

“This is bad.”

“Look, if it is, how can it be worse than Destiny taken?”

“There’s more… More, June, than I’ve told you.”

June’s eyes settled on his, a look of uncertainty, fear… And even bewilderment. She went on thumbing her engagement ring. But instead of a warm touch of white gold she found flesh. They had taken her ring.

“This is personal…” June’s eyes remained focused and then grew harder. “These people who’ve taken her…”

“Yes?”

“I think they know me. I think they both know me.”

Crenshaw placed the groceries to the side of his apartment door and slid the key into the lock. He went to turn the knob but found it fell loosely into his palm, while the door gave a whine as it turned freely on its hinges.

Everything was as it was before he had made a stop to the local corner store. All but one thing. A card was folded over on his kitchen table. He picked it up, turned it over and opened it.

“You bastards!” he said, crumpled the note and threw it away. Opening a drawer by his bed in his one-room studio, he found a pistol and slammed the drawer shut. He didn’t bother with the door but stormed out with the gun slung down in his pants beneath the cover of a worn and faded black leather jacket.

Outside his door, in a red 70s style Pinto, two men watched as Crenshaw entered his vehicle and left. The driver, Johnny, put it in drive and slowly turned on the headlights.

“This is good, very, very good…” he said. He lowered the driver side window and spat onto the sidewalk. His thoughts raced at the revenge he’d soon have; he picked up the phone and dialed the New York Times.

“Mr. St-?” Johnny said nervously.

“I told you not to call me on this line.”

“Yeah, whatever, got news for ya… So far so good… They’re on their way.”

“An’ the kid’s dad?”

“Served like a cold dish.”

“Heh, cold… Perfect.” Although Johnny couldn’t see it, he was smiling ear to ear at what he just heard. Johnny hung up the phone and looked over to Cleveland.

“Cleve, remind me to get that note,” he said. Cleveland nodded in compliance.

Johnny flipped his left signal light, keeping his distance by two cars. Already the sun beamed lesser and lesser until it had finally left dismal colors that bled into others until there was no more bleeding but one midnight blue hue. Someone was going to die tonight, and Johnny was going to enjoy it.

They found the pistol beneath a sewage gate of the old abandoned building on 33rd street. June, heavily sedated, woke up and drowsily turned to all the flashing lights.

“Destiny!” she called.

“Destiny Cassia Crenshaw?” an officer asked. He too wore a little pad with a snubbed point for a pencil.

June beamed at her name and then she realized where she was. Just outside her peripheral vision, Crenshaw, hands cuffed behind him, was ducking into the squad car.

The officer by June shook his head and said, “His own daughter, for God’s sake.”

“No…” June whispered. She laughed nervously, in panic, cursing within and then broke down in tears. She cocked her head to the side and then whispered again, “No! Dear God, no!”

“She’s missing… Couldn’t have gone far. We followed the blood trail to east where it met with tire tracks… Fresh ones and by the size it’s a-”

“But is she dead?!” June gritted her teeth.

“We, uh…”

“Is she dead?” Unconsciously she tucked her shirt in, then using the same hand slipped her hair behind her ear, greasing something against her temple. She looked at her fingers. Blood.

“Is she…? Oh God.”

“You need to have that…” The officer’s words droned out as June’s head collapsed onto his shoulder.

An hour or so earlier…

Johnny laughed as he drove the Pinto away from the abandoned warehouse. In the back seat, Destiny, gagged and sedated, jerked up every so often with the bumps in the asphalt. The streetlights ran like on conveyor belts through and over the insides of the little faded red car. Johnny was busy trying to count the white lines between the lanes. He looked over to Cleveland, smiled and then spat out the open window.

“Wake up, man, it’s done!” Johnny shrugged the shoulder of Cleveland, whose blood had covered up most of the seat.

“Johnny, man, this is bad, man,” Cleveland grimaced in pain staring at his life blood saturating his hands, arms, running deep into his denim pants.

“You’re lucky, it’s just a flesh wound.”

“I dunno, man, I dunno!” Cleveland doubled over.

Johnny slammed the brakes on the Pinto and turned to Cleveland. “Shaddup! You’ll wake the baby!”

“But Johnny! Geez, it hurts, man, it hur-” Cleveland stared into space.

Johnny cursed, pulled the car over in a screeching stop, jumping the right lane curb, and pulled out his pistol. He said, “Look, we off her later; first we get our money. But I need you to hush and to trust me.”

“Man, I don’t think it’s a flesh wound, man.”

“Trust me, there’s a hospital comin’ up. Just hang in there.”

“Hang in there? I can feel the bullet, man! I can feel it in me!”

Destiny’s father flashed through Johnny’s mind. Crenshaw. The sight of Johnny had put a grin on his face and that was what Johnny had counted on. Actually, Johnny had counted on a number of things, like the planting of Crenshaw’s cologne just before the abuse of his daughter. At that time Destiny was blind and the story made front page, leaving a convicted father to the mercy of prisoners in New York State Prison. Another thing Johnny counted on was the pistol to be taken for granted. After Crenshaw found the note it was certain his rage would consume him. Johnny, having planted the gun, made sure of one thing. A body would turn up, tying the weapon and the victim together.

You genius you. Johnny smiled, popped the Pinto off the curb, letting the shocks squeal a little, and then ran a red light. Cleveland said nothing. Destiny, out like a light, was still curled up in the backseat.

“Almost there, Cleve,” Johnny said. Although Johnny had a past with Crenshaw, there were a few things concerning his boss. Destiny was to be kept alive. Johnny winced at that thought but he had his orders. And the pay only came with full compliance.

“Yeah… Will make sure that happens…”

“Destiny…”

When the ransom for Destiny finally came in, it was the state who handled the money. And therefore since the State handled the money it was the State that took custody of her. Crenshaw went mad. Not having enough money to care for his own daughter, he fell into a drunken rage. Alcohol was his only sin, he always said. But Crenshaw’s and June’s alibis were what was mysteriously odd. They had mentioned the abandoned warehouse. Crenshaw proved right in his alibi, save the pistol. A Cleveland Harrisburg was found dead some time later and identified in June’s testimony (her ring was left in the small pocket of his denim pants). He was a regular at Benny’s. June had seen him often in her morning shift.

Already Destiny seemed perfect. She appeared in court with a smile beaming from left to right ear, oblivious to what was going to happen. Only one mysterious thing: the court date concerning Crenshaw’s daughter was assigned. June and Crenshaw were separated from her in the room and they watched the little girl, who had only seen the light of the cruel world for what seemed like moments.

The little girl did a Holy Ghost gig and smiled, toothless and innocent.

“I got a peelin’,” the little girl hummed, “everyting is gonna be all white!”

“Right, not white!” the bailiff looked at her. He smirked.

“I don’t like you, mister!” Destiny said. June gave an inner hoorah beneath a cocky smile.

“Yeah… shaddup, kid!”

Destiny was enjoying the ride. She said, “Yo mamma!”

June tapped the bailiff on the shoulder and whispered, “She got that from me!”

The bailiff growled nastily and then turned back forward. The judge, a woman, came through a closed door behind her seat off to the left. The bailiff stood at attention and said, “All rise, the honorable Constance E. Jude presiding!”

I have never seen the righteous forsaken. This was the prayer of a little waitress named June. Already the war had escalated. She wasn’t well into details. But the little she had made her pray harder. Already the rapture had blown her mind. She thought of those minutes afterward and wept.

The child was to remain in the custody of the State. A warrant was posted for a Johnny Cardena and although the notes mentioned by June and Crenshaw were not found (both seemed to be missing; however, the witness of Doctor Moore remained substantial enough to not convict Crenshaw again), it was evident that things seemed a mystery. June continued to ponder the missing links, moving the pieces about like a jigsaw puzzle: The notes, the wrath of Crenshaw and his killing of Cleveland. And Cleveland—much was unsaid about the quiet little man who frequented Benny’s Diner in the wee hours of the morning; even Mr. Sterling—a small piece but still uniquely different than all the happenings; a little girl’s sight given to her by God the same God who allows her mother to die; the break–in…

“Oh God,” said June. The paper’s headline said it all, compliments of Mr. Sterling:

Girl blind at birth now can see. Alexander, world leader, offers her allegiance.

Then it all came together. Almost like a thousand-piece puzzle when its image finally was clarified. With a helpful story in the paper from a Mr. Sterling reading:

Young girl Destiny is taken custody of by State. Blind girl regains sight but given choice. Alexander’s allegiance tested. Will she make precedent as the youngest to receive mark?

That monster! June screamed within. She almost slammed the paper down but something moved her to read on. It read:

Terror seizes the economy! Due to the increasing child abductions, the young girl Destiny Cassia Crenshaw appealed to courts as a highly endangered girl concerning her popularity. Alexander moves to have her marked, knowing his global positioning system will be able to track her anywhere.

June exploded. That bastard is after the children! She stormed out of her apartment, the newspaper trailing along the hallway. In moments she was off already planning, thinking, wondering and fearing for it not to be. But it was. Or it would be. This was bad, very, very bad.

Crenshaw sat submerged in the smell of alcohol. Not a bad cologne, he thought, guzzling down a beer and belching out relief at the same time. A rapping at his door—he went to answer it. June moved peered through the peephole and Crenshaw groaned.

“More bad news…” he said, opening the door.

“It’s worse than you know,” June said, oblivious to the rich aromas of cigarettes and… Strawberry Wine. Been awhile, June, she thought. And more like a motion than an expression, June fanned her hand before her nose, saw her ring and hid it in her pocket. Fear was opening her heart. Crenshaw, not as drunk as he thought, caught it and tilted his head like a curious puppy. With her right hand she pushed her bangs behind her ear and then started to sob.

She said, “She can’t… She can’t!”

“Can’t what?” Crenshaw flicked his cigarette on the carpet and stepped on it.

“They want her!”

“I know, June, but what can we do?”

“Oh God… oh God… oh God!”

“Look lady, breaking God’s commandments ain’t gonna help none…”

“Your daughter’s in serious-”

“My daughter’s in over her head-”

“No, you don’t understand: It’s all been staged!”

Crenshaw put out his cigarette beneath his penny loafers and sat down, a hand around the neck of a warm bottle of wine and another hand resting on the arm of an easy chair. He said, “Talk.”

The next hour the pieces were arranged and then placed.

“Oh dear,” said June.

“Wanna smoke?”

“Naw, quit…”

“You should start up again. God’ll forgive ya.”

“You know, Crenshaw? You’re right… Heh… Thing is, I might enjoy it too much!”

June paid no attention to the room, which looked more like an act of God hit it, navigating around the dirty laundry and the busted beer bottles. She looked up at Crenshaw and then said, “It’s the mark. She can’t\; she doesn’t know. Oh dear God, you don’t get it, do you!”

Crenshaw plastered his left hand over his right eye and said with a throbbing headache, “Naw, sometin’ about Alexander…”

June shuddered.

“Wha?” asked Crenshaw.

“Look here, oh God, oh God,” said June, flipping through a small burgundy Bible. Then in complete frustration she shut it and said, “It’s somewhere… Crenshaw, it’s gonna get bad. Real bad!”

“Like moon to blood stuff?”

“You know the Bible?”

“Wife did… Her sis really used to pepper her conversations all the time with it. Sun turn black, moon ta blood, Armageddon—whole nine…” Squeezing his head like it would help, Crenshaw groaned in pain.

June laughed cynically and said, “You don’t know the half…”

“And lemme guess. Destiny is saved… But they wanna-”

“Are you sure?” June’s eyes ignited.

“Wha?” said Crenshaw with a lisp.

“Are you sure she is saved?”

“Don’t kids get in free?”

“It’s a precedent. It’s a precedent that they want. Alexander’s after the kids. His mark is…”

“Oh dear God!” said Crenshaw. He was drunk and yet he stammered over from his lazy chair and went to vomit into the toilet. Terrible accuracy landed most of it along the side and a few chunks onto the bathtub until it circled down the drain. A moment of contemplation led to an epiphany. The smell caused him to upchuck some more. He still spitting said, “But God!”

“I hope you’re right,” June said. She almost made a cross with her fingers and then gave up. She used to be Catholic. That seemed like moments ago. Now the little waitress trembled. Talk of the mark had been rumored. Before even it was rumored the hidden tremors in the economy, the poverty level, the mortality rate, the pestilence, the drought. She said again, “God, I hope you’re right…”

It had been talk, rumors really, with nothing sound to stand on. June was fidgeting her ring finger again. And then it came together and she said, “Alexander will have to have been behind it somehow. The time tables are a little topsy-turvy. If he is who it seems, then this mark isn’t an allegiance just yet. Years ago it was considered a way to find lost children… It was said to probably… Never mind, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

It would appear as though if God were a good God, then His answer would come speedily. A little girl held the world at a standstill. Not long ago, she was blind. Now she could see. But questions were raised. Children were the controversy. A father drunk was still a father. And though he could not hold a job, could his presence on this earth still appeal to Destiny? His incarceration was found faulty. And in every sense did he bare that lie. But moments ago to God and centuries to us, words of warning had been prophesied. A Man of God had spoken about prayer for this age. The gears of time slowed yet still turned. The two still walked. Time was gone like wind around an hourglass; everything still moving one sand at a time and time still blew where God pleased. Now words were remembered. The two did wonders. And in moments like these, purpose is born.

“Ready?” June pulled out her camera and her maps. Elton drove the little Volkswagen to the curb near the diner and honked twice. It blended against the dozens of other horns and Johnny almost laughed at the madness. The little things were starting to shine through in his life. He glanced at the sky beyond the towers and stores. The sun had melted into a great cloud and they were still in its warmth. A magnificent blue perched on the horizon amidst a collage of memories. There was so much work to be done. The plan was simple. Warn as many as they could and live off their hospitality. John carried his files: access to hundreds of accounts built up over the years. And Benny’s was going to always be a nexus. Somehow June was going to make it. Already the reports were coming in: more war, Terrorist attacks, Plagues, Disease. People were being taken from this earth. John’s pale rider had started his ministry. June was going to start hers. June smiled, thumbing her ring as always. She had told her story. A story not unlike anyone else’s during this time, but she laughed. Others had cried when they found out. All around, no-names walked passed unaware, asleep.

The encounter

Introduction: This story reveals the power of a promise for whole families to be saved… It pushes the imagination of the reader to wonder at God’s sovereignty. I wrote it from my own questions about His all-knowing all-powerful ever presence in Creation from the beginning of time to its end. I struggle with it internally because when it boils down to Him knowing everything and I nothing, I can just please Him with my faith. And yet all things work together for good to those who love Him and are called of His purpose. I would sit at my iron chair just on the patio of a small coffee shop in Montrose (it was too cold inside and the windows would sometimes grow blurry from it).

And then it came.

I dreamed once of a woman I never met. She wasn’t real, though, more like an impression, like her face was black and white with a thousand grays between. But as I spoke to her, color began to seep into the sides and along the contours of her nose and around her brow until she was an ocean of life-giving hues. And she breathed and then she smiled. And as she did, a wisp of blond hair fell over her eyes.

And then the colors and the face said, “Please, save me!”

I woke up and found myself babbling. It was like meeting someone once and wondering why you had for the rest of your life.

That was thirty years ago, before I was a Christian, before the rapture, before me being left. I had had several dreams; each a little piece of a puzzle. But she was the first, a memory burned into me like a photograph. And those memories I held in a journal in which I drew little thoughts bordering the sides.

Since then I had encountered many people with the Gospel. I had had many dreams prior to salvation, with several faces staring into my own. But her face found its way back to me long after her dream resurfaced. That was why I was so curious about her at first.

I knew it the first time I saw her. She caught my attention, unlike the others I had found in my sleep. She was a dark brunette, with whispers of bleached blond strands, looking no older than twenty-three or so. I had followed her here one day with such an urgency I had tripped over my steps; that, luckily, birthed a smile that would grow to an open kindred of spirits.

I drew a blank the first time we met, just over the little island by the register in a coffee shop, a hole in the wall of a place I had recently found myself going to not long after that. Behind her, posters of almost every notorious rock artist that shook America plastered the wall, and each was tagged with white ripped-out notebook pages of numbers scrawled on for prices. She wore blue—sky blue, really—eye shadow I could drown in that hid her eyes like a kitten peering from within a ball of yarn. She bit her lower lip, murmured a curse (I gathered she didn’t like her job) and ran all five rings on her right hand through her hair.

I didn’t know what I was doing, really, with the first encounter. I seemed to scream inside but outwardly nary a peep. Aside from her nose ring (or the chain that hung between it and her ear, for that matter) she was a diva in her own right. Hendrix never looked so good on a white tee. Her faded denim pants seemed modest for her likes, but her hand-painted shoes fully made up for them. She was a live life out loud type with a mixture of firecracker and vinegar.

I gathered I wasn’t too dressed up for her. I’m not saying this was anything like a cosmic connection or an alignment of the planets. No, nothing of that magnitude, only the dream…

I always had a good eye to see things, small things that others overlooked. The world was in pain, and me? I lived in it. Everything was dying on the inside and yet on the outside, the veneer held.

I said nothing, comparing my thoughts with my actions, hiding my eyes and testing my motives, looking away yet staring. I stared at the wall with a blank expression to the works of art that more or less littered the place. Da Vinci would turn over in his grave had he seen his Mona Lisa airbrushed on a series of white wife-beaters. I cringed. Following the glossy black lattice wall holding up Mona’s work of art were blue jeans, torn and holey, green dollar signs and images of dead presidents. The jeans seemed to slip slightly from the hangers, leaning at an angle (where some fell hidden behind black covered tables) and left sloppily in piles over price tags and those waist and length size slips that attached them.

Upon the altar of the upper shelves several Happy Jesuses with arms outstretched welcomed me. His gleeful look was a translation in its own right, boasting of hand-painted intricacies. I almost overheard that He, the Happy Jesus, was a pretty hot seller. I picked one up and stared toward miss blond, who caught my eye, gave a smile and then returned to work. Below where Happy Jesus stood were lewd bumper stickers and Darwin’s fishes, having grown legs, which gobbled up Christian symbols.

Even the floor was artful, with little footprints tracking toward the cash register. A jar had taped on it a skull with green eyes aglow, threatening to kill if no tip was deposited. Separating the back rooms was a Dukes of Hazzard bed sheet which whirled with life from a little rotating fan, softly buzzing behind the ambience of New Age sounds. An antique photo machine had plastered onto it several slips of photos of couples and people with their children or best friends hugging or smiling or laughing candidly.

Places like these required prayer, much prayer. But I found the timing out of my control.

I seemed to arrive in a foreign land. It was a world in which customs and etiquette were lost in translation: Smoking devices, zigzag papers and all sorts of trinkets of imagination. Then I stared at the nifty collections of local artists’ music, from spoken word to urban to a blend of genres (almost as tasteless to me as mixing three bowls of cereal), which were displayed in metal racks beneath the counter. I doubt a twenty spot would satisfy my listening interests.

I could look for minutes in any direction and still find something my eyes had never seen. A world polluted with such darkness that it knew no light, nor thought it needed light. Behind me an employee lowered the blinds (the shop’s front faced a fading sunset), ending the last of the warmth, to be replaced by energy saving iridescent bulbs. They were the type of bulbs that imitated the sun and prevented depression.

I consumed myself with the exotic aromas which burned in little vials over marble oil burners. The walls flickered from dozens of pearl candles, each with their own syrupy wax that ran down the linings of the sides, collecting on the brass stands.

It was then that I decided to play God. I focused back on her, the little girl with blond wisps. “Do I know you?” I managed.

A coy smile emerged in her, a light sparkled in her blue eyes, and then she laughed. She slammed the roof of a stapler against a receipt and then slid the receipt into a slot on the counter. With a confident eye she moved coolly into my question.

“Yeah, you first met me when your feet fell off outside. Yeah, I remember you.” I noticed no scissors in her tone. Carefully, very carefully, she ordered a stack of papers together.

She turned away from me. In a moment of sheer suspense I held my breath. I remembered an urgency about the dream I had had, and finally a few connections seemed to run through my thoughts like water.

With her back to me, she asked calmly, “Was that all?” Inquisitive, I thought.

I thought if… but I was trembling inside, counting my steps.

A slight deja vu and a wonder followed. I had been here before. And then it was over. I searched for words. I had waited so long… Yet the dream had said nothing of this. A cold shadow seemed to pass over me, a heaviness like waking up early and feeling a ten pound weight sitting on your chest.

Was it from my surroundings? Around me incense burned slowly, with aromas of pomegranate, patchouli, and deep sensual aromas. She shifted weight from one leather sandal to another, revealing black toenail polish, smacked a piece of chewing gum and then hocked it into a white little trash can sitting below a poster of someone holding an eighties style radio.

“Was that all?” Her words, rhetorical or not, pressed me toward the wall.

“Umm…” I played with my words lightly.

“You know…” She decided to lead me to honesty. I felt like she was really saying ‘and?’.

Her intuition caught my fear; it alarmed her and made her step back. I retaliated with a stutter of my own and she relaxed, a little.

But then, with an overcoming curiosity, she gave me the benefit of the doubt and went on to say with a hint of empathy, “You al‘igt?”

Outside, I was as cool as ice. If you only knew! I thought inside. Her eyes went deep into me. Psyhic, I thought. Just in case I prayed. Her stare injected into me painlessly but evidently probing, searching, looking, wondering.

“Excuse me?” I paused. Slightly frustrated, the woman peeled a strand of white hair back behind her ear, revealing a string of diamonds lining her lobe. She repositioned herself.

“I asked are you ‘ight?” she said.

“Ite?” I iterated back. Her smile returned.

“Are you all right?” Part of her seemed like she wanted to slam her fist onto the counter. But instead she calmly lowered her arm and asked with a most polite response, “You do speak English?”

I thought quick. “Not that dialect, I guess… What is that, pidgin?” She smiled again.

I smiled back again.

A fit of confusion left me bare and icy when to others, dozens before her, I was as transparent as double-paned glass. Of all the dreams I had that happened, this was different. This was what all those other dreams led up to. I flirted with the thrill of witnessing for selfish ambition. Such thoughts erupted from much internal activity.

I was about to speak when a wind chime sang that signaled a customer. The door slammed open…

I went blank.

Later…

I woke up in a hospital and found out the girl behind the register in the coffee shop was dead. Not only that, but I had lost the use of my legs.

The hospital walls were drab white, with serene watercolors of floral designs. Little trays were wheeled about with medicines, food and important papers, among other things, leaving little scuff marks at some turns, making squeals along jingling wheels with the song of keys. Intercoms buzzed with life, addressing doctors every which way and nurses and techs the same. Actually, I stayed for the most part in my little bed, staring outside.

I was tired.

I wanted more. I had enough questions to fill my time.

There were few details offered. Maybe the thought of my legs pinned into a wheelchair was enough. I spent much time in wonder. Why? Why had I not gone? Why hadn’t she stayed? I stared out of the little window into the parking lot. My salvation was secure. Hers… My fists closed in anger. They then released and then balled again. Outside, pigeons clucked back and forth and fluttered their wings. I never noticed that. I slammed my hands into the side handles of my confinement and cursed. Maybe, I didn’t know. Was it grace? Was it mercy? Not my time? I didn’t know.

This was just after the robbery. The assailant, a drunk, left bloodstains along the dashboard of his car where his car was found belly-up not far from a little diner just north of the coffee shop. He got away with only thirty-three dollars and a possible twenty-five year stretch. He won’t see light for some time. And I might not walk ever. But there was more. There was so much more…

Urine and bleach permeated the air and I didn’t even care. The sheets rippled as a visitor slid against them and locked the bathroom door behind them. I turned the TV down by the remote next to the food tray that extended from the little bed which I lay on.

Light beamed in and onto the dividing sheets in my little room. Others around spoke softly. There was so much left unsaid.

“Her name was Natasha,” a doctor in a little white coat and stethoscope said.

My head throbbed. “Doc, any Advil or something?” He fished into his pocket for some happy pills.

“You know, you’re lucky to be alive.” I listened as he said this then wheezed out two words.

“Heh, luck…” Heavy on the sarcasm, I thought. The doctor said nothing and then looked away outside.

“Okay, blessed,” he retorted.

“No doc, can’t be…” I said. I downed the three pills and water from the little plastic cup and said again, “Can’t be.” He said nothing for a while, a long while, as he seemed to try to find the words.

He observed my countenance and said, “You can still talk with her. You know that, right?”

“What?” It was like a surprising left hook.

“If you want to make peace she’s on life support. It isn’t much, but it is something.”

“What do you mean, she’s still…”

The doctor shook his head and said, “No, Natasha’s brain is dead. We are waiting for the parents’ consent to pull her off life support.”

Her parents were on the way.

Her name was Natasha. I sat by her, holding her hand, and I began to weep. I laid my head down on her bed, on the soft linen sheets and thought I finally found you! Hot tears fell, I gripped her hand tighter and I wondered, Can you hear me? And then out loud I said, “You can, can’t you?!”

I stayed up most of the night in vigil. I had whispered the Lord’s Prayer, running my fingers over every bead I wore, several times. I had forgotten much of my Catholic faith, but over and over I prayed.

Every word I said made me feel smaller and smaller. I was torn between a deep bitterness and a learned gratefulness. Natasha. Natasha. Natasha. Natasha.

Often I thought about the Lord. Even now, as I held her inanimate fingers, even as my hands trembled and hers did not, I cursed my luck. I groveled within, having felt a penance of some sort would be in order, yet what could come of it?

And then, an answer somehow unraveled. I felt a release inside of my barren faith, something triggered and I rose.

“Natasha,” I said, “Rise!”

I waited. But nothing happened.

Nothing.

Nothing…

I hadn’t anticipated my dream would span three decades, as if God’s train of thought was interwoven between then and on through the great happening and on through now. It is uncanny, the timing… Had Natasha not been struck by that bullet, she would not have been in position for what was to happen in her room.

The next morning the doctor found me awake beside her. He said, “Her family is coming.”

Family? I gritted my teeth. “Please.” I needed a moment alone.

“By all means,” the doctor said and then slipped out.

I looked at Natasha and then I opened the blinds. I whispered, “Let there be light.”

I didn’t know what to say. I watched her for almost an hour. I felt guilty. I didn’t know how I could have missed my timing. The dream was long before the great happening, the rapture. And still, even now, being left behind, it was my first understanding of God and about being saved! It was like a puzzle piece that had finally fit. And yet I missed it.

“Oh dear God!” A little brown old man leaning over his cane stared into the room where Natasha and I were.

“Hmm?” I said. Family, maybe? I thought. I pulled away from Natasha, just in case.

With a scuffle of sliding feet, he made his way over to us, all the while pointing a withered hand at Natasha. “I, I, I know her!” I relaxed a bit. Gently he placed the same hand onto her arm. “Somehow, from someplace a long time ago-”

“From where?” I asked.

“I, I , don’t… Someplace.” He tapped his cane against the tile by his feet.

“A dream, perchance?” I said.

“Somewhere…”

“Somewhere? Please, can you remember?” Every moment took her further away.

His words hardly ended when another nameless someone found her way in as well.

“Na Na?” that someone said. “Tha’s Na Na!” It was a little old lady shuffling her way toward us. She moved her lips side to side, like she was grinding her toothless gums against one another. In her eyes was a sparkle like she had seen someone she once forgot. I’d have to guess it was Natasha. Again she went on railing, “My Na, my Na!”

“Wait…” I said.

I leaned over toward Natasha and I said, “You know her?”

“From somewhere…I don’t know,” The little old man said. He seemed spacey, recalling thoughts long forgotten.

I just can’t remember! I thought he would say. His eyes reengaged and he said, “Something about her…” The little old man giggled. The old lady smacked her gums.

“I guess she just has that face,” I said.

“No…” he said. Behind the baggy rims of his eyes sparkled the same baby blues as Natasha. His fingers had collapsed in arthritis and he ran them through the little hair he had left. Deja vu…

“No?” I asked.

“No…” he said. And then he said, “No… No, no, no!” He referred to her condition. “You were supposed to live! No, no, no!”

What? I thought. And then I said, “What?”

It was the little old lady who stepped in. “No, Nana, Nana she’s dead… Dead! Dead! Dead! Wake up, Na! Please wake up, up, up!”

Perfect, I thought, just perfect.

Then entered a nurse who saw the little old man and said, “There you are, Father! You have to excuse Father Brenham ,” the nurse said. She halfway whispered, “He’s kind of, you know, lost.” An innocent giggle, and a compassionate hand wrapped around little Brenham to lead him out. Father? I wondered if he was Catholic.

“Someone needs to wake her up!” Brenham said as he was led away. And just before he left through the door a little voice crooned out, “Bye… Natasha!”

“Bye Natasha!” teased the nurse.

“Bye, Na, Na!” the little old lady said and followed them out.

And as they left, I could not recall if I told them her name.

This is how Natasha awoke. It was my third day beside her. Her family had not come. Father Brenham and the little old lady constantly found their way to us. I only spoke to her the red words of Jesus Christ in His New Testament.

“Did you see that?!” Father Brenham, called father for his love for children, now left behind, had his moments. The nurses in the area found him playful, always wandering around, getting lost, and then sometimes he was found just staring outside windows. Everyone had a story. It was said that he lost his mind shortly after the happening: Something about a wife who could never reach him.

And then her finger moved.

“Na!” pointed Esmeralda. She was the little old woman who had wisps of silver and strands of black hair coarsely running through her scalp.

Her finger twitched again. And then her head shifted and she sighed a deep, long sigh. And then she opened her eyes. I hadn’t noticed I was still holding her hand.

“Jesus…” she said. And then she slipped back.

“O’ Lor’,” said Esmeralda.

Father Brenham’s dream was immaculate. He told us as we waited for Natasha to wake again.

“I remember like it was yesterday,” he said. “Paw said it over meal time one day. Said his paw, said his paw always knew his dream had a reason. So long, so long! No one knew it would last all these years… It’s been years… hundreds of…” Father Brenham ran his hand through his hair, just like Natasha. He started to leave, but I gently tapped my foot against the floor and he spoke, “Just like yesterday… Paw said it –”

I said, “Natasha, how did you know her name?”

“What? It was on her front door on the clipboard. See, right there, Natasha Bourne,” said Father Brenham.

“So you didn’t know her name before that,”

I said.

He laughed and then said, “I knew her name! How else would I have found her name on the clipboard?” Brenham stared through me and said, “Said the girl looked for God… She knew something was wrong. She looked so hard that God noticed her prayers. Said He had coma, coma-”

“Coma?”

“Compassion… Compassion over her whole family, a girl unloved by everyone with a darkness that wanted her… So dark she hid in it until she could wake up.”

He went on to say she was adorned with jewelry and beauty unlike any other woman. She had been stained in guilt, aware of something she needed yet had not found.

I wondered if the story he told was just a random thought. I wondered if maybe it was coincidence. Yet if that were true, then how did he know her name?

“Na, Na,” Esmeralda said.

“Natasha… Say it: Natasha,” I said.

“Can’t, no teet’!” Esmeralda flipped her upper lip over to reveal red and black gums.

“You need these,” said Father Brenham, who pushed his dentures out of his mouth and then back in.

The little old lady who could barely speak sat with me.

Natasha turned her head. Just after that, her family made their entrance.

“Who are these people?” someone roared. We turned to the opening, taking our stares from Natasha. It was her family. The man who had roared at us stood adamantly at the door.

And we were asked to leave.

I, however, had other plans. I said, “No.”

He almost stepped back. I wheeled my wheelchair, still a novice at it, until I could see him in full view. Behind him were Natasha’s mother and two others—friends, I guess, or sisters. I couldn’t tell who took refuge behind the older gentlemen.

I wanted to cry. I said, “How dare you, sir, in the presence of your daughter. We mean well!”

“She’s not my daughter!” he said. “Not anymore!”

“Frank, no…” his wife said.

“No sir,” I said. “Whatever you have been through, I am here for you!”

“Na!” Esmeralda said.

“Stand down!” I said, as my hands held the armrests.

I thought for a moment, a brief moment, of how it would feel to Christ over this precious moment. I retracted down, pulling away from even the bedside of Natasha.

“She is alive still, I know it!” I said. Natasha’s mom began to whimper and then to weep. Frank, a burly old man, seemed to think he’d grow hair on his chest if he acted like a macho man. Natasha’s mom clung to him.

“She spoke, just now… Just now! See, she moves…”

“Probably witchcraft,” Frank said. “Knowin’ her, she got it at that devil’s shop she worked at.”

“Bay,” Frank’s wife touched his arm. “Maybe-”

“She lives, Na does, she do!”

“It’s a regular three-ring in here.” Frank put his hands in his pockets. He said, “What are you, some kind of Wicca, wichen—what’s that word?”

“I’m here for your daughter. I am here to tell you darkness is coming. I believe something is about to happen. I believe God loves your daughter and Christ has need of her…”

Natasha was awake finally. It was the miracle that brought her family to Christ, a miracle that ran throughout the whole hospital. Later I was to find out my legs weren’t permanently paralyzed. Slowly I regained the use of my legs.

“See… Na.. ta.. sha.. is good!” Esmeralda put something in my hands. I looked into her hollow eyes and felt a deep love for her. I saw such solitude.

She said, “Jesu’ da’ Way, de Light, an’ de Truth” As I watched, almost immediately, hope filled her and tears ran down her face. I looked at the piece of paper. And my eyes grew wide.

Natasha was a wellspring of life. She was full of curiosity and many people would pass by her room just to see a miracle awake. We talked, we did, for long hours into the night.

“I knew there was something different about you…” she said finally, “From the moment I saw you, you seemed to… to just sparkle!” I watched a dead woman speak to me for the first time. And I could not believe it…

“Well, you know, I try,” I said.

Natasha leaned over and said, “Little ol’ lady couldn’t get enough of me, huh?”

I looked to Esmeralda and then back to Natasha. “Yeah, but I don’t get it… What’s her story?”

“Dunno really, she seemed ’ight first time we met,” Natasha laughed, with that same coyness. I went at ease.

“You don’t know?”

“Not really, maybe we will know later…”

“Later?”

“Yeah, right now we got work to do…” she said. “He’s coming again, you know…”

“Glory!”

“You know you’re a famous wise man’s tale, right?”

“As long as I’m photogenic,” she looked up and ran her hand through her hair, flinging it up and out. Attractive, I thought.

“What was it like? Being legally dead for four days?”

“I saw Him… We talked… And then He said rise!”

“No, I did.”

“Nope, heard His Voice… Kept saying verily, verily, verily.”

But there was more. Esmeralda had a secret. She was eighty-three years old, sliding throughout the hospital on pink and white foot warmers. Her eyes twinkled like stars. She only watched, perched within a mind of wonder and song.

Something wicked was approaching… Nigh our front door…And we were ready.

David Lopez

To the Five Wise Virgins

INtroduction: This story is one that agrees with the others and yet doesn’t. It brings a fictional reality to what will be. My own interpretations of this story brink on my own convictions to life. Writing this story made me face my own fears as a child of God, as well as a human… I wrote my fears into this story. As I wrote this story, and as I read it, I wonder if my own destiny will be completed as I hope these two men of God will. The five wise virgins were prepared. The others weren’t but were knowledgeable of God… They knew the trumpet would sound. This story is for those who are unprepared Also I doubt the two witnesses were related..

Inspired by Revelations 11: 5-8.

The first bottle exploded by our feet, sending shards of brown glass mercilessly through the air. It was like the crack of a cue ball against a perfectly racked set, hurling its pieces every which way. It sent trickles of sound throughout the air that collided with the curses and shouts and screams that came from the maddened crowd which jumped and raved and clawed against the armed guards: A ricochet of cries that deafened our ears. Their clothes were festered with filth and they glared from behind a boundary of tape and yellow ropes that bent at their will. It was our enthused audience and they howled at us with piercing stares and pure hatred. There was a shattering of peace and the smell of death was all too telling. We were alone with them. Once upon a time He walked these streets with his stories and His message. And they still hadn’t listened. Behind them the once beautiful city of Jerusalem lay in a cesspool of trash and litter. I watched on as the dirt was swooped into dust clouds by a scorching wind and then deposited in the shadows between the buildings in crowded alleyways: A home to beggars and vagabonds, lost souls in need of reaching. Yes, He walked these streets but He was never alone like us, except once. My father and I stood between the people, within them actually (and yet it was not them I feared), as we neared the great building, both our destination and our destiny. The great building shot into the sky, its white pillars telling a story (a lie, rather) of its greatness and strength. It was solemn in its attempt to hold us and though I knew what it represented to me, I wanted to laugh and to cry, thinking that this was soon to be it. The massive pillars drove themselves deep into the concrete like large tree trunks that had given up their lives and lay still, gray and cold. The concrete bore steps: hundreds of them that came toward us, calling us onward, inviting us in. I found cracks and shadows to be its foundations and light bounced off the windows of the many glass panes that lined the front and sides of the building. Beside it a dying sun; beside that, clouds and a surfacing crescent of a moon. Elsewhere cars honked and flashed their high beams against us, an alarm whizzed in the background. A baby cried somewhere deep in the fury of the crowd and then died away. Tension mounted.

“Open the heavens!” someone shouted. Not time, I thought. Besides, that was Elijah’s job. I smiled at my father, a ripe 75 years of age and yet strong as an ox. The fusion of the crowd exploded and more bottles were sent our way, launched by angry arms and coldness. They broke, ill-aimed but properly crafted. I smiled at my angels, my hidden dreams. Without them I would be a lifeless stump by now. Looking away from the crowd, their eyes, their words, I felt a stir beneath reality. Something dark was looming close. It had written its story in their eyes and I knew to turn that story would take one last miracle. I closed mine as we marched and drowned out the raving crowd until only silence came to me. And I heard them, the imps behind it all, and I felt their fear. They wanted one last pull at us, and I felt the hand of grace pull me from my hatred. It was my weakness. A bloody thirst for justice and with one thought toward them I felt the little imps shudder: The damned that hid in the night of day cursing and destroying. Another bottle slammed a few feet from my father, yet he walked on, forging a path on the street, slowly to its end. This was the heart of the great Jerusalem, a heart that danced in abominations and now felt the uncomfortable stare of holiness knocking, pleading, once more to quit its adulteries. My father knew they wouldn’t listen. But my heart melted turned toward them.

There were a few left who had hidden between the cracks of this once great city: Those that called for death and knew suffering, the stragglers who resisted. They were the few last virgins left awake, the few last little lights scattered from the great tribulation and forced to hide or die for their beliefs. It was for them that I prayed. I felt His presence, low and quiet, like a storm rising. It hummed and yet rode like water around me. I paused inside and collected my thoughts. The wind of Glory rushed from us into the crowds and I felt peace settle on one more virgin. I smiled within my well of compassion and my eyes turned to water. It made me think of my father.

For it was my father who had heard His Voice to come here. And I knew it was time. But there were things unsettled. Something grew uneasy with me when I thought about how many times I had faced death and lived to share its story. No one always beat the odds, no one. Not even my father who before had lived a hellish life. Drinking, women, money, fighting, and yet something urged me that I could never ever judge him. My walk brought me close, his brought him far. In between his anger and burdens there was always the Call, quiet and still, like a well driven nail that finally sank in. It was powerful when it did. I honored it, but he, he knew he was a disgrace. But then again, I wasn’t perfect either. Another bottle struck pavement. A strong wave of hate wafted in, like heat off a hot tin roof. Beer christened me, lacing my clothes with its scent, and I wondered if my dad could smell it. Its fragrance could erupt memories in my father, and I slowly stepped away from him for his strength. The crowd clamored back at my movement toward them and then almost hushed. I moved toward my father and prayed for his strength. The spirit of alcohol rose up and immediately was rebuked. It was the Glory that quaked now and we were in its eye. I felt it leave and come back, seeking and finding, loosing and binding. Virgins were awakening.

His eyes had searched and found us. And when we accepted the Call to do this I knew what it meant for me. But I still wasn’t ready. Death had a sting for some. That some was me. I didn’t want to feel it. I didn’t want to know it. Terrible days were upon us, terrible days. I felt the imps laugh. They could sense my fear, like a smell in a rabid dog’s nose. My father rose up quickly to the scent and in sternness spoke.

“Learn,” he said. A one word conversation that was needed… We had had this conversation before. I don’t know if it was the prophet in him or him just being my father. I couldn’t tell. And I drew a slow, agonizing breath again, searching my heart. The sting grew heavy and I felt like I could slip into it like a coma, never to awaken. I was on the verge several times since we began our ministry. Death had always been my weakness. I had thought about death even before I started my great journey. Now it was a daily reminder. It comforted me. And I spoke.

“He’s not speaking to me,” I said.

“Learn,” he said. The crowd was getting louder. Edgier. My father shot out a stare and the pack

of wolves quieted a little.

“But the air seems different. Something’s not right.”

“Remember the prophecies,” he said.

“I’m clouded.” All was a haze.

“Use your imagination, son.” He walked on, “Don’t think about the pain when it hits.”

“How?” There was a surge of uneasiness.

“You’re ready.” Another bottle slammed our way. I thought of my angels again.

“Remember the prophecies.” And then he was silent again.

A camera crew had found us. Sidestepping the yellow ropes, they came boldly to us but then stopped. My father gave them a glare and they shifted. The camera man positioned himself impatiently.

“We only get one shot at this. We’re live in three, two, one.” The red light awoke above the lens.

“-And here walk the two now. Among the litter and the trash that these people have thrown at them, it is truly a sight to see them alive. On their own free will they have come and collected a gathering of stern hatred. Witnesses report Alexander is willing to meet with the two who claim to be -” but he was beyond our ears now and slowly the pages turned.

“So that is how it will be,” said my father finally.

“How what will be?” I was almost scared.

“John promised an audience,” he said.

“You mean the cameras?” I asked innocently.

“Internet access, telephone, TV,” he went on, “millions are choosing right now. Millions…”

“I can feel it.” It kept me from my sting.

I tried to breathe. I really did, but all that came out were little snippets of breath, like I was slowly being drowned, and then revived and then drowned again. Once, my father made me memorize some scriptures from the Book of Revelation: John’s book. It’s for your own good, he had said: For my own good.

The Glory was evident.

Every step I took, every choice, would either deny or let live a soul on this planet. Sometimes the burden was too great and I would sit beneath a willow or climb into a book. I found myself comfortless now. So I tried to hide beneath that tree one last time. The last of the great theatrical play was being worked out, with God behind the scenes, running all the puppets. So far every prophecy had been fulfilled. Every line had come to pass. Every word spoken to light. So that meant one thing for my father and me. And still I did not want to believe it.

“What do we say?” I asked my father as we walked.

“I don’t know. What can you say to a man who cannot change?”

“Will not change.” That was my compassion.

“His fate was decided long before he was born,” he said in a fatherly tone.

“There still is hope.”

“You know better than that,” my father said through his humble brown eyes.

“If you knew you could change, you would change,” I corrected.

“Don’t mock me.” Then he almost broke, “He can’t change.”

“If you could, would you?” I asked.

“Change him? After all he’s done, you’d give him mercy?” My dad was right. I thought and then I countered still.

“He can’t change,” my father said again, before I could speak. There was anger in his voice and I felt thunder ripple through a cloudless day. Don’t get my dad angry.

My father walked proudly. A lion, he was. He was the one who could call down fire. And to see the people jump back from the thunder after all these years… I almost laughed and my nervousness released into an almost cocky air. Fire! The first time my dad did it I sat in awe as my favorite willow had turned to flames and ashes. That was what I got for lying to him. I never lied again. And to this day we still laughed.

“Son,” he had said, “don’t you ever test me again.”

His face was aged like an old raisin and I felt the Glory emanating from his being. It went to and Fro, gathering strength and then returning and then finding strength again. It too was like a fire that surged and bellowed in the unseen realm and commanded people into submission. It captivated people to fear. It made them do one last internal check. It was a witness to the already damned about the mark that crested their brow. That was our purpose: To prove to a Godless world one last time, just in case there were a few stragglers that had refused Alexander.

This power rested in me as well. It was just a little different. It was sweeter around me. But it flowed just as easily, water to blood, frightening and then the sting bit again.

There we were, at the end of our journey. Or maybe it was the beginning. I don’t know. And standing before us to welcome us was the most loved and hated man in all the world. He stood there just watching us, smiling as we came walking into his den of vipers. I think he was ready to strike.

You can tell a man by his eyes, my pastor had once said. I watched as I saw the serenity of a sea in the man before me. But then it shifted, followed by the fierceness of a storm, and just as I saw it the sea returned. And with that he smiled coolly. The crowd was quiet now: Patient… Still… Waiting. I watched as he neared us with his pale complexion, as if he had no rest in the past few days. And he watched us from his perch of his pride. There were bags beneath his eyes. I wondered what he saw in mine.

And he spoke. “Are you thirsty?”

We had traveled the world, been to the Four Corners of the earth, seen the birth of the greatest revivals in the history of man. And the first thing he asked us was if we were thirsty? I looked at my father; almost smiling, he turned to him and stared.

“Do you like Coke?” he asked again. There was a hint of honest sincerity in him.

“Thank you,” said my father. Two Cokes with ice in glasses were brought to us immediately. The ice jingled and I saw the refraction of the sun setting peacefully in my glass. I had always liked sunsets. I felt the warmth of the sun on my arm as if it were the last time and I looked at my drink and then I looked at him.

“They’re not poisoned,” he said softly.

There was a moment of awkwardness as my father raised his glass.

“To life, then,” said my father. To life, I thought.

“To life,” said he whose name was Alexander. And my father and I drank to life. It went quickly in our glasses and we handed them back to Alexander, who took them and gave them to a guard with an automatic weapon strapped around his shoulder.

“You have been quite difficult to get hold of,” he went on.

“Really,” I said.

Alexander looked at me with his steely eyes and reacted as if I could not tell what was behind them. “It’s just that… I’ve dreamt of this practically all my life. Like, I was born for this.”

“You were,” said my father.

“I know,” he said. He continued to look at me. There was a fire in his look, a cruel blue flame beneath his eyes, and it was getting hotter. The crowd listened.

“I’ve read the Book,” said Alexander finally. He was still when he said this, like he had fully accepted what was to come, what had to be and what was happening at this very moment. He said it like his choice was resolute, as if there were honor in it. The sun was dying now and the lights around the great Hall had surged on. They seemed to react to the darkness, like my father and I had since the beginning of our ministry. But then one of the great lights began to flicker and in a moment it died completely.

“I am curious, however,” said Alexander. I watched his brown hair fall over his eyes and him neatly putting it back in place. His high cheekbones and chiseled good looks appealed to all who saw him.

“What would you like to know?” asked my father.

“Which one are you? Are you the prophet Moses or the one named Elijah?” he asked with genuine interest. He went on, “These have power to shut heaven, so that no rain falls in the days of their prophecy, and they have power to strike over waters to turn them into blood and to strike the earth with plagues as often as they desire.”

“Revelation,” said my father.

“11th chapter, sixth verse,” he mused.

“You know your scripture.”

“Well, you have to know your enemy.”

The crowd began to stir. Soon they would ignite but right now they were just thumbing the flint and then releasing the handle without it catching. I thought of my mother the last time I saw her, before the great disappearance, and how she had looked in her Sunday best with her Bible in hand.

I believe He has a plan for you, baby, I can tell it in your eyes, I would hear her say. Then father would wish her and me goodbye (because he wasn’t truly committed at the time) and would get back into the football game and have a beer. My father had always told me he had a full life. But I—well, I spent my days working for the Lord, winning a soul here, sometimes just listening to folk. There was more I could have done. There was so much more, being a young one in the faith. And yet even now that I was doing more, I still felt like I had missed it. Something… And I wanted with all my heart to do that something, whatever it was. When the rapture came it struck like a match and died away just as quickly. My father and I had always known but we didn’t understand how or why we were left. The call had chosen us. The mark was coming. And just thinking about the mark made me realize there were some things worse than death. The crowd thumbed the flint again…

“Truly a sight,” Alexander said to me, “Truly. You see, if I let you live then the prophecy will not come to pass. That would mean that I would have some faith. But I cannot. But if you are to die…So you see, I too hold the power of life and death.”

“There are things worse than death,” I said. I wanted to go Home now. I kept it in my mind as the coma grew heavier. I could hear the burden call to me.

“Spoken with conviction,” he said. He turned his back on me and walked over to a guard. He went on, “Like losing your honor? That, I fear, is worse than death. Death without cause—this has always been an interest of mine.”

“How about rejection…?” His back was still turned against ours and I thought of how prophetic he was.

He went still. The back of his head lowered slightly and it seemed like he was probably smiling behind my back. But I could not tell. The Black surrounded us. Night had fallen. The imps were rising up. And he took a gun from one of the guards. The clouds were becoming lifeless and already the purples and blues and reds in the sky were fading. The stars revealed their faces to us boldly. He was standing along the steps of the great building, and the crowd stopped moving all together. I felt the Glory sift through the people searchingly. But the people did not move when they saw him take the gun. His black suit went in and out with the background of night and again I thought of how prophetic he was.

“Rejection… I made that decision before.” There was a sliding sound as metal shifted against metal. It was the sound of a gun cocking. “I remember reading once, Touch not mine anointed and do my prophets no harm.” Stillness… “But what would it take for a prophet to reject?”

“I’m ready to die,” I said.

“Are you?”

“Doubt is a part of life, son,” whispered my father, “like death.”

“Kill them both!” someone shouted. And the flint ignited with fury. In the distance the crowd opened up like a bad wound, and bitter cries began to release into the air.

“Do you doubt, old man?” Alexander turned around. His eyes became that storm and flickered in the light. “How much do you love your son?”

I hadn’t seen that coming. My father stiffened. “No…” I whispered.

“To die is gain,” my father spoke. And that’s when I knew where my strength had been all these years: in him. Locked away in my heart, deep beneath it all, my father had been my strength all along. If he were to die…

“Yes, but to live…” The gun turned to me and I didn’t hear a sound but I felt my knee shatter and I collapsed into the dirt. The Glory overwhelmed me and I had felt nothing. Nothing! A smoke cloud rose and I heard the burden tighten about my waist. Was it really worth it?

“Yes!” I answered. But what was beyond? My curiosity began to pull and tug. Around us were angels. There had to be. I bet if I concentrated hard enough I could sense them. I bet if I could just focus. But I wasn’t in pain… All I felt was Glory!

My father hadn’t moved.

He watched me writhe on the ground like a wounded animal, mostly in shock. My glory was either dying or shining; I could not tell. And then… A memory.

My first kiss.

“This is your son! Won’t you at least beg for his life?” someone.

“Yeah!”

“That’s what you get!”

“We won’t turn!”

“We’ll never turn!”

Fishing. The silence of the waters as I sat still…

“Receive the mark!”

“Never!” that was the last time I heard my father’s voice this side of eternity. It was followed by a loud crack. And then an echo in the distance. In the distance.

“Kill him too!”

“Yeah, slowly!”

Him...

“It’s your turn.”

“Prophesy a bullet!”

“This won’t hurt!”

That is when I stared deep into the man who thought he controlled my fate. And that is when I saw it. The fear in his eyes.

“No,” he said. It was almost a whisper. And I smiled. Not in vengeance, but in triumph. I had finished the race.

That old hymn: “If we with ink the ocean fill, And were the skies of parchment made, And every stalk on earth a quill, And every man a scribe by trade—”

Black.

“To write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry, Nor could the whole contain the scroll though stretched from sky to sky.”