Pray

It was musty. The air filled with particles, revealed by the streams of sunlight coming from the arched windows in the back. Wooden seats, smeared with finish, gave rest and relief to her aching body. She didn’t plan to have this child, who at 3 months, couldn’t really be called a child yet. She hadn’t wanted to keep this child, who at 3 months, had started to appear, making a slight bulge in her otherwise smooth stomach. But did she need to keep the baby? That’s why she was here after all. To ask her savior, Lord Jesus Christ, to ask him for his opinion, even though she was pretty sure that she already knew what his answer would be anyways.

She knelt. Knelt on the hard marble surface, polished and swept seemingly daily. Knelt on the small piece of God’s kingdom where hopefully, she would be able to find relief. Peace from the discomfort and estrangement she felt from her friends. Relief from the unbearable parents who wanted her to abort. Freedom from all that weighed upon her. And so she prayed

Prayed that the answer would come in some form, shaped and delivered by God. Prayed that everything would be alright. Prayed that if she were meant to give birth, that the child would find a happy family. Prayed that if it weren’t meant to be, the child would die a painless death, not knowing the dangers of the world, or the face of his or her mother. Prayed that she could finish school and find some semblance of a normal life. Prayed for comfort. Prayed for Relief.

And so she wept. Wept for all that she had been thinking. Wept for the kind words of the priest and those who had stayed by her side even as she had changed herself. Wept for the torment that these last three months had been for her.

And then she died.

Mary Oliver

She's the shit.

Much better than David Thoreau.

Sounds like how I think a really awesome, wise, and funny grandma would sound

The Sealed Letter

A poor attempt, and yet unfinished

I opened the front door to see my wife standing in the foyer holding a thin envelope with a wax stamp in one hand and a letter opener in the other. My reflexes kicked in. This wasn’t a normal letter. It was a special shade of yellow custom to my organization, and in it contained instructions for my next assignment. Of course, Amanda probably wouldn’t be able to decipher the code, but if by chance she did…No, I’m not going to think about that. I’m just going to fly into her arms and slyly grab the letter from her hand and switch it with one of the other ones stacked in a pile on the counter.

So I shout, “HONEY! I’M HOME!” and rush towards her with open arms. Except that she basically has a blunt knife in her hand. So I contort my body to avoid impaling myself, and we both tumble to the ground. That didn’t go as well as I had planned. But, at least in the chaos, the letter had left her hand and was now a good fifteen feet out of her grasp. She was startled, that’s for sure. Not sure of what to do, I went for the kiss. She deftly avoided it through a slight turn of her head. I tried to soothe her, saying “I’ve been wanting to see you all day, and I just couldn’t help myself”. She stared at me, or maybe more accurately, through me. She wasn’t having any of this bullshit. And I was supposed to be the best in the business? I couldn’t even lie to get past my wife.

Damn you Organization. Yes, that’s actually what it’s called. Organization. Couldn’t you find a better way, given that we have email and encryption and all that technology now, to send me an assignment? You’re putting my wife and kids at danger if you give them knowledge of this stuff. So I try a different method – the ol’ change of topic technique. “I had a really bad day today. Can we just go out somewhere and have a nice dinner?” She was paying no attention to me. She was already crawling, maybe even scrambling at the pace she was going, for the fallen letter.

The Conversion

The entire school was in an uproar. Parents were phoning in asking if their child was sick or showed any signs of having been contaminated. Some girls weren’t allowed to go to school that day. The headmaster made a public announcement over the old intercom that only reached a third of the classrooms, and the headmaster never used the intercom. Girls who usually came to class pushing the dress code, today had buttoned one more on their shirts than usual and had let their skirts hang lower, almost out of fear of it touching their innocent thighs. Rosemary Catholic High School for Girls was not the same as it had been even just a mere twenty-four hours ago.

At the start of school on Monday, Jenn Freeman had wreaked havoc on the effortless, systematic functioning of Rosemary with her proclamation. Normally, Rosemary started at 8 PM when girls would walk from their dormitories or drive in with their Escalades and BMWs. Teachers would begin roll immediately at 8:15. Students could select their courses, but in general, most took Science, Math, English, History, Art & Culture, and Religion. There was a one hour break for lunch at 11:30. School ended at 3:30. Detention and any school activities ended at 5. This was a normal day at Rosemary. Today was not a normal day at Rosemary.

When asked to share in Religion 260, Jenn’s second class of the day, about what they had gleaned from their personal prayers, Jenn knew exactly what she wanted to say. She began by stating, “God visited me in my sleep last night. How do I know this?” Jenn paused for dramatic effect. “He told me, that’s how. Anyways, he was telling me that I was a destined to show the world a truth. It would come in the form of a scripture. I didn’t believe it at first, thinking that it was either a hoax or just a dream. But I found the truth while reading last night. I’m a god-loving girl, so I wanted to share this revelation with you all today.” Jenn reached into the recess of her bag and pulled out the book. “It’s called The Michelangelo Code, by Daniel Browning,” she said. “You can find it at Books & Nooks right now”. She continued with what was sure to be her magnum opus. “The book is a story, but the real message is hidden behind it all. I had to read between the betweens of the lines to see it. God is trying to tell us that what we have assumed for thousands of years is false. Mary Magdalene was no saint nor was she pure.” A few gasps emitted from the class. Jenn’s lips curled slightly with satisfaction and anticipation. “What I’m trying to say is that Mary Magdalene was not a virgin”.

“SHIT!” Sarah Fuller, normally very quiet in class, had just screamed a profanity while slapping her desk. Hurried, hushed whispers erupted in the room. Everything from “Oh. My. God. Did you hear her? You think it’s true” to “That lying needy bitch. She just wants attention” was said. Despite the teacher’s best efforts to quell the storm, the damage had been done. All throughout the rest of the day, the only topic being spoken of was what Jenn Freeman had said during religion class. The teachers whispered about it next to the watering hole. Students openly debated it during lunch. After school, Books & Nooks had never seen such a rush by pretty high school girls for a book of fiction. The store ran out within fifteen minutes of school ending. The next shipment arrived on Wednesday, and that stock too was snatched up within the hour.

Jenn had always stood out as different, not better, just different from the rest of her classmates. Her father wasn’t a hedge fund manager and her mother didn’t run a philanthropy network raising money for this or that. Her dad didn’t play golf at a country club and his mom didn’t attend black-tie cocktail parties. Her family was middle of the road, right smack in the middle class. Her dad was an engineer who worked on airplane engines and her mom enjoyed her time running a small bakery. They lived in Ohio, not one of the most glamorous states, unless you were a college football fan maybe. Jenn could never really understand the fascination with the violent sport.

Jenn herself was also different because she was normal, a stark contrast from the boob-jobbed bimbos and bare-legged babes that walked the school. She enjoyed reading books, especially ones about history and religion, as well as fantasy. She liked to wear dresses and tie her hair with a ribbon. She wasn’t the best looking gal in the school, but then again she hadn’t had plastic surgery yet. Brown hair, walnut colored eyes, full healthy cheeks and a smidgen of baby fat left in the chin. B-cup breasts and a size 4 waist and no boyfriend. Religious but also rational. She was just an average kid in a not so average school, where all the girls were at least C-cups, not virgins, and destined for Ivy League schools. She had gotten in on a scholarship.

For the next week, she was confronted by a different group each day. At first it was just random strangers who came up to question her motives. On Wednesday, it was the teachers who were “concerned for her well-being” as they put it. On Thursday, it was the parents who held a roundtable and “invited her to sit in” aka get grilled on a stake. They were trying to shut her up. Today, it was one of her two closest friends, Michaela, who finally had mustered the nerve to confront her. Michaela started talking.

“Jenn, it’s a bunch of baloney.”

“No it’s not. I emailed Daniel Browning and he said that everything was backed by thorough research. He even sent me an excerpt of his research. There were notes and highlights everywhere.”

“It’s a novel for Christ-sakes! Let his name not be spoken in vain.”

“But it makes sense. I’ve been reading up on religion and history ever since I can remember. You know this right? And I did my own research and it makes some sense. If people would just not be so dismissive of contrarian ideas all the time, then people might start to actually see this truth. You are saying the Lord’s name in vain when you don’t believe one of his messengers, me!”

“How can we really believe that you are a messenger of god? You said he visited you in your sleep. What’s he look like then?”

“…Don’t worry about the details! Just listen to the rationale behind the truth.”

“Fine! I’ll give you one chance to convince me, but only because we’re best friends.”

So Jenn Freeman launched into the argument that she had been preparing just for a moment like this. For someone on the fence, who could land in her camp and crusade with her. And just like that, Michaela Ashley Ford was the first believer. And gradually, more people followed. Rosemary Catholic High School for Girls became known, unofficially, as Rosemary Catholic High School for New Believers, because of the new sect of believers that popped up, almost like a secret cult or just a temporary fan club. Maybe it was because Michaela Ashley Ford was the daughter of Tom Ford, the famed actor, and the great-niece of Gerald Ford, the former President, and had a big posse of cute and talented girlfriends. Or maybe it was just because, like Jenn Freeman had said, it was all the work of God, and she was just the messenger.

Drank (follow up to Sunrise)

Sweat drenched his face. “Another nightmare,” he mused as he reached over the side of the bed for the flask at his bedside. The bed was a simple sleeping bag. All around him were people, young and old, in similar situations. The room was dark, sun had yet to grace the earth with its presence. The sloshing liquid inside calmed his nerves.

He looked around the room. He saw a young couple cuddling together, combining their sleeping bags. He saw an old man, shriveled, head tilted, drool oozing peacefully out of his open mouth. He was jealous. He saw another little boy that he had played soccer with the other day, and beat up for his chocolate bar today.

He was bitter. Bitter at the higher beings who had decided to take away his parents. Bitter at being unable to do anything about it. Bitter at not being able to see his friends or go to school or play baseball. Bitter at life for being so cruel to him.

But he had found a companion in drink. Apart, one was just sitting in a bottle, hidden under the floorboard of the kitchen; the other, a feeble eleven and a half year old boy who couldn’t take care of himself. But together, they could accomplish anything. They caused havoc on other residents of the temporary shelter. He stole food from the rations in the kitchen. He could stand up to the adults who always put him down.

He felt a bit woozy at times, but he had learned to control himself to get the perfect amount in his mouth for the perfect feeling of power. Unscrew the cap. Swish it around in your hand to mix up the liquor. Tilt head back. Swig for two seconds. Let liquor rest in mouth. Swallow and enjoy.

When he was sober, he felt like shit. He kept remembering the smiles and memories of his parents, but they were nowhere to be found. He had tried searching for them. He had looked at the house, the leveled house, but all he found was a broken picture frame…and a soccer ball. He had played with it for a little while. But when he discovered drank, the soccer ball got used less and less, until it simply sat in the space under the floorboard.

Sunrise

I was tired. My eyes refused to open more than halfway. I hadn’t slept for at least forty-eight hours, judging by the number of time I had seen the moon and stars since the incident. I was scared. I mean, isn’t it normal to be scared when you’re eleven and a half and you haven’t seen your parents in two days? I just remember…I don’t want to remember, but I remember waking up from my afternoon nap after my baseball game to the sound of my mother’s piercing screams and the sound of rushing water – then nothing; only silence forced by the overwhelming force of 10 meter high waves. I don’t have any memories of what happened for the next few hours because when I woke up, night had descended and only darkness greeted us with a smile.

It was like I had been transported to a foreign territory in my sleep. Maybe this is what the apocalypse looks like? I surveyed the area from a safe spot near the top of the hill where a temporary shelter had been erected. The destruction was everywhere. Trees that before were full of green foliage and blooming with sakuras, now skinned bare with only branches left, sharpened to a point. Houses were shell of their former selves, ground down to their concrete foundations; some were a little better, with some wood and paneling standing so that you might be able to imagine the shape of the house; others, even the concrete was in bad shape. Debris was strewn along the road, now a river of dirty brown water. I could figure out where my family’s home was only because of the new bright yellow roof we had just installed. But it was no longer the bright canary yellow that shined like the sun, but a mustard color tainted with soil, debris, and the dead.

Despite all the warnings I’d been given, I felt a strong urge to see my home…no, to search my home, to see if I could find my parents and to see if there was anything of value left to be salvaged. I made my trek down the rocky slope of the hill slowly, often slipping, other times tripping. I didn’t have shoes on. In the knapsack that they had given us at the shelter, I had packed a flashlight, a banana, and some juice.

It wasn’t so bad, I thought to myself. Not compared to the other homes. I could at least enter the home from the rear entrance, now a large 10 meter wide gap in the wall. After searching inside the house, I had found two things of use – a pair of shoes and my baseball mitt, damp still from the tsunami. The rest had been destroyed beyond recognition or had been rendered subsequently unusable. And not one trace of my parents, except for the broken frame of their wedding photo hanging askew along one side of the bedroom. After exploring the inside of the house, I surveyed the outside. The water came up to my waist, and I could feel the water pulling me towards the center of the current, away from the entrenched land where my feet were planted. I allowed it to pull me briefly.

The river was monotonous. One shade of milk coffee brown. One speed. One flat surface devoid of any contrasting features. Except for that glint in the water. It glimmered like a beacon, bobbing in and out of the sunlight. The orb gradually floated towards me, almost as if magnetized. I picked it up. For being what it was, it was surprisingly heavy and kept slipping from my hands. I was able to tuck it in my knapsack and wade back towards drier land.

Sitting along the bank, I laid out the ball. It brought back memories of dad trying to teach me how to appropriately control the ball speed and direction, but instead falling flat on his butt after missing the kick. Those were great times…Alone, at the bottom of the hill, I started crying. It started in little sniffles and grew to full-fledged sobs. I didn’t want to cry, but the physical and emotional toll was wearing me thin. I sat and cried for what seemed like an entire afternoon because by the time I had returned to the shelter, it was nightfall once more.

I smelled filthy. The combination of dirt, grass, sweat, seawater, and time wasn’t the best combination for my baseball uniform that I had worn to sleep. I lay in bed clutching the soccer ball between my hands, arms extended upwards. It was still shiny after I cleaned it up. Slightly flat, not quite round, with panels of shiny pearl and a huge mitre logo. I moved my fingers along the crevices where the stitches held the leather together.

I thought hard about the object in my hands; it wasn’t a baseball. I couldn’t use my glove to catch it, nor use my hand to throw it. But at least it didn’t need a bat. At least it was a ball. At least it had air and rolled. Not like the rolled buildings that lay in heaps, dusting debris along the cracked paved roads. Not like the extinguished lives buried under the heaps. It wasn’t a sport that I loved but at least it was something I could do to pass the time. It could distract me from the thoughts that I’d been having recently. Besides, it didn’t need to people to play catch with. One was just enough. It would be alright, I thought. This ball would become my companion, my travel mate, my study buddy, and my best listener. With this thought in my head, I fell into a peaceful sleep.

And then the sun came up again.

From a different perspective

Same craigslist assignment, just a different take on perspective

I wonder if this will work. I mean it was a hundred dollars and it shouldn't be that hard to get here...I feel pathetic. Of all the days to be wanting him I picked the one with a 6' snowfall.

Oh I hear someone outside. I wrapped myself in my thickest winter jacket and crack open the door a smidgen. Frigid air meets my face. Above the snowfall I see the crest of a man's head, looking down at me. He looked to be in his early twenties and wasn't bad looking, but then again who can tell when people are all bundled up these days? He did remind me of...nevermind. Everyone reminds me of him. There's no need to bring up things of the past. It's not like I'm craving these items because of him. Not that we shared this on the day before he died. Damn it, I just want the food that's all. I don't need to justify this. There's nothing wrong or irrational about wanting some damn brownies and ice cream. I have money to burn too...can't let him see me like this.

I lunge forward to grab the bag from his shielded hands. Why does he keep looking at me? Is it my face? my eyes? Whatever. I'm uncontrollable now. I am possessed with some sudden need to devour the items. I don't even want to see them anymore. I just want to wedge the whole thing in my mouth. Fuck this nostalgia. It's not like he was that great anyways. HE was never here, he ignored me for days at a time, not to mention moody. But I loved him damn it. I love him.

Why is that guy still looking at me? Oh, he wants his money. Yea whatever, I'll grab it and make him go.