joyful!

by

Maureen Wilkinson

The sun rose outside the bedroom window and tickled Francesca’s eyelids. Reluctantly she raised them, groaned, and rolled out of bed. Her husband, Joel, made snuffling noise and burrowed deeper into the duvet so that only the top of his dark, curly hair was visible. Francesca’s heart gave a little ping and she smiled at the man that made her heart ache with the weight of her love. If it were possible, she loved him more now than when they met four years before. Kindred spirits, they enjoyed the same things, Sport, theatre, and the sensation of freedom as they travelled to places far from the tourist route.

Slipping quietly into the bathroom, she showered, and wrapped in a large bath towel, dried her tawny hair in front of the mirror. Her pale face stared back at her.

‘God, I look such a flipping mess, fat and ugly. How can he fancy me?’ she whispered to her reflection.

Francesca turned away in disgust, thrust her arms into her old dressing gown and with a savage tug at the belt, tied it around her waist. I’ll make him a special breakfast, the works. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and even those dammed maple-syrup waffles he loves so much.  She imagined she heard her knees creak as she lumbered awkwardly down the stairs.


***

With breakfast eaten, Joel rose to his feet and stood above her. ‘That was smashing. Now I’m going to have to rush or I’ll be late for work.’ He nuzzled the back of her neck. ‘See you later, gorgeous.’

As his car pulled away from the drive, Francesca gave a contented smile and gazed at his empty plate. He still loves me even though I’m fat, she thought, and reached for the last maple-syrup waffle, gleaming in gooey splendour on the bottom of the dish. Normally she didn’t like sweet things, but it seemed a pity to waste it.  Forking the waffle into her mouth bit by bit, she cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher with the breakfast crockery. As she straightened Francesca felt a dull ache in her lower back.

She pushed into it with her fist. ‘Now I’ve pulled a muscle, that’s all I need with the weeks grocery shopping to do. I’d better sit down for a minute,’ she muttered.

With her elbows on the kitchen table she waited for the pain to subside, but instead it spread to her hips and stomach, increasing in ferocity like the waves on the shore at the start of a storm.

‘Oh my God, I must be allergic to something, Perhaps it was the Maple-syrup,’

The kitchen clock registered that barely ten minutes had passed since Joel left for work. Panic rose in her chest. He’d still be in the car with the cell phone turned off. 
 
She fumbled for the phone and punched in the number of her surgery.

‘Hill-Top surgery, can I help you?’ The receptionist carolled in her ear.

‘Yes, this is Francesca Benson. I need to speak to Doctor James immediately. I think I’ve been poisoned.’

‘I’ll see if he’s busy.’

‘Are you mad? I think I’m dying. I have to speak to him right now.’

‘Will you hold the line Miss Benson? I’ll see if I can locate him.’

‘It’s Mrs Benson, just do it.’

There was a moments silence and then the line clicked.

‘Hallo, Francesca. What’s all this about you’ve been poisoned?’ Doctor James’s soothing voice caressed her ear.

‘I ate a maple waffle and five minutes later I was in pain and …’

‘Calm down, Francesca. Describe the pain.’

‘It’s in my back and the bottom of my stomach.’

‘Is it constant?’

Francesca clenched her fists and hunched her shoulders as another pain hit her. ‘No in waves.’

How long in between?’

‘How the hell should I know? I’m not looking at the clock.’

‘Guess.’

‘About five minutes.’

‘Sounds like you’re in labour.’

‘I can’t be. The baby isn’t due for another three weeks.’

Francesca heard a chuckle, and the amused voice of Doctor James.

‘The baby doesn’t know that, Francesca. Is your husband there?’

‘No, he’s in the car. I can’t get in touch with him.’

‘Call a taxi then and get yourself off to hospital.’

***

Joel sat at Francesca’s bedside. He rubbed her arm gently, his face full of pride, as he looked down at the sleeping child on her breast.

‘She’s beautiful, just like her mother. What a wonderful way to end the day,’ he whispered.

Francesca’s heart gave a little jolt. I’m a mother. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Maureen Wilkinson is a British Author. Her interests range from travel to antiques. It’s when walking, her mind travels its own strange paths.
Some of her credits include short stories published in Flashme, Champagne Shivers, Gemini, Literal Translations, Susurrus, ect. Northern Ireland Arts council published four of her flashes in a newly released anthology. She has been nominated for 2010 Best of the Web, and also the 2010 Pushcart prize. 

Distraction

by

Lorraine Sears

“But why?” her high pitched voice was full of pain as I watched her grubby but angelic face start to crack

“Sweetheart, granddad was very poorly, you know how many times we went to see him in hospital,” I reached over to stroke her hair.  In the evening sunlight, as we sat on the back doorstep it was a million shades of gold from blonde to red. 

“But I thought hospitals made people better,” it was the accusation of a five-year old.  Something in her black and white world had failed and she couldn’t understand why.  I sighed and thought back to my own childhood, when my dad died.  I was only a year older.  I tried to remember how my mum had explained things to me, but I came up blank.

“Hospitals are the best place to be when you are very poorly, but…”

“I don’t think they are,” she interrupted.  Secretly pleased she’d interrupted me, I smiled down at the cross little frown she wore. 

“Why’s that?”

“Well, when we went to see granddad last time, he had to drink his tea from that beaker, like a baby.  And he said the food was horrible.  And it always smelled funny in there.”
She scowled up the garden path.  Greg’s dad was as close to Abbey as a grandfather could be.  Before he’d got sick they’d been as thick as thieves, always giggling and plotting together.  The phrase ‘apple of his eye’ had been invented to describe just how he felt about his granddaughter, and it was mutual. 

 “If we’d looked after him he could have had the special cup I painted for him, and you could have made all his favourite food,” she said with complete sincerity.  My smile grew even though tears threatened.  If only people could be made better by drinking from a china mug and eating home cooked foods.  Children should rule the world.

“I think granddad would have loved us to look after him,” I agreed, holding my hand out for hers.

“So why didn’t we?” she asked with a sniff, pushing my hand away as if she blamed me; her little bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“Because I wouldn’t know what medicine to give him to make sure he didn’t feel any pain, that’s why he had to be in the hospital with the doctors and nurses.”

“Where’s Granddad now?”  Ah, the million dollar question.  We’d never talked about explaining death to Abbey.  I’d been raised a Christian, and though I didn’t go to church anymore, I still believed in Heaven and took comfort in the belief it was where you went when you died.  But a friend once said she’d told her daughter the fairies came and made a person in to magic dust, because it softened the blow.  Yet I couldn’t bring myself to tell her something I had no belief in.  Beside’s we’d never hidden anything else from her. Sugar coat stuff, sure, but fairies and dust were a step too far. 

With Greg on emotional shut-down and deliberately keeping himself knee deep in probate and funeral arrangements, the decision of how to explain death to our daughter was all mine.  I took a deep breath.

“Granddad’s in Heaven now.  Where he can see us all the time and watch over us,” her face brightened, drawing my eye to the hundreds of freckles across her nose.

“So I can see him still?”  Fail.

“Oh, baby, no,” I shook my head, I was rubbish at this. 

“Heaven is way up in the sky, you can only go there when you die.  The people who love you can’t see you anymore, but you can still see them and make sure they’re always safe.”

“So… so I’ll never see granddad again?” her bunches swished from side to side as she shook her head and tears welled on her eye lid, ready to spill.

“No sweetheart,” I winced as the pain covered her face completely.  Seeing my little girl fall apart was not something I wanted to witness again, ever.  With trembling lips, eyes squeezed shut tight, big tears fell. 

“But I drew him a picture,” her words came out in a wail as she choked back her sobs. 

“I know,” I dropped my arm around her shoulder.  “How about we find a nice frame for it with a photo of you and granddad and we can put it on your bedroom wall?”

“It’s not the same,”

“I know, but it’ll help you remember how much fun you and granddad had and how much you loved each other.”

She sighed, a big long sigh, way too deep for someone of her years and pushed away the tears impatiently with the heel of her hands, streaking the dirt on her face.  I needed to find something else for her to think about.  Tightening my arm around her and pulling her close I said,   
“You know who’s going to need our help the most, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Daddy.  Granddad was his daddy, and he’s going to be so sad, we need to look after him.”  She looked up at me with her big crystal blue eyes, just like Greg’s, just like his dad’s and she nodded dutifully and sniffled.

Just then a loud chiming version of Greensleeves rang out through the air, making us both jump.  It announced to the neighbourhood that the ice-cream van had arrived.  Abbey jumped to her feet, sadness forgotten and her tear-stained face bright and smiling, exposing the gaps in her teeth.

“Can I have an ice cream?!”

Lorraine Sears is a married, mother of two in her mid-thirties.  She’s always had a love of creative writing and enjoys combing life observations with her imagination to create her short fiction. She’s also written a fantasy fiction novel, as yet unpublished and she writes a ‘Wellbeing’ magazine for her employer, which is deployed to the 30,000 strong staff population in the UK. 

Juan Chavez's Miracle

by

N. W. Sherman

The whole dome of heaven was a transparent blue, as blue as the cloak of Our Lady Guadalupe Hidalgo. In the eastern sky the morning star shone as brilliant as a bit of ice on the high Sierras. Along the edge of a low mesa rose an adobe village that had stood beneath such skies for almost two hundred years. A whisper of wind preceded the dawn. Juan Chavez walked bareheaded through the low gamma grasses to the village church.

Juan should have been on his way to irrigate his field, but this morning was different. Juan had a great thing to ask and could not wait until Sunday to light a candle. His hand was almost as rough as the ancient wooden doors to the chapel he pushed open. He dipped his fingertips into the Holy Water and crossed himself. He was a little afraid to be alone in the dark chapel where usually he was but one of the hundred parishioners gathered for mass. The quiet of the chapel soothed Juan's fears as he slowly came to the altar rail and knelt on the hard, cold stone floor.

"Dear Jesus on the cross, hear me now. Hear my prayer. I know I am the most fortunate of men; you have granted me a loving wife and six wonderful children. My land always produces enough to feed us all. I have never asked anything of you, but now sweet Lord, I need a great thing". Christ looked down from his cross over the altar with a sorrowful little smile, but was silent.

"My youngest child, Maria, went off to the big city and married a gringo. They have three small children, and a big house on a hill. I don't understand how they became rich, but they go to church regularly like good folk. Listen, Jesus, I need your intercession. Father Kevin has read me a letter Maria wrote. The letter says that Maria has the cancer. Her body is filled with pain and growing lumps. The gringo doctors have done everything their art is capable of, but she is going to die. I will not go to the Bujo with his evil magic spells, but I beg of you as our last resort; please give my Maria ten more years to raise her family, to reap the joy of watching her children grow."

Christ on his cross was touched by the plea from a virtuous man, and whispered: "Juan, my good and faithful servant, surely you know all must die; the balance of the universe would be thrown out of order if death did not come." Juan looked up into the eyes of his Master, and renewed his plea that Maria be spared. Christ was silent upon his cross.

Juan got up from the stone floor and left the chapel. He paused on the front steps of the old adobe church, and looked up to see a twin contrail far above. Even further away over the horizon, Maria awoke and slipped into her kitchen to make an Easter breakfast for her family. Unnoticed, the tumorous lumps had already begun to shrink. The doctors noticed the change later, and were amazed as the cancer shrank and Maria's health returned.

It came to be known Juan Chavez had prayed for his daughter's recovery and she survived terminal cancer.  The story became a family legend, whenever the family gathered for a wedding, a birth, or a funeral, the story was told and retold. The old people would nod in quiet acceptance of the truth of the story, and little children listened in awe just out of sight of their elders. The years passed, slowly for some, more quickly for others. Maria's family continued to prosper and the children grew tall and strong over the long years. In Juan's village the time passed more quickly. The young people left for greater opportunities in the cities. A good road was built from the highway thirty miles away to the center of the village. Electricity came to replace the church candles. Each year more of the village elders found their way to sleep beside their grandparents in the churchyard. Juan Chavez' wife died, and his tired bones began to stiffen until he was unable to work from before dawn until after sunset. Ten years passed.

Maria awoke and slid from her bed one morning to make breakfast for her teenage children, and discovered a lump the size of a walnut under her left arm. She remained silent about her discovery, but made an appointment with her doctor. Two days later when the doctor finally examined Maria, the lump had grown noticeably larger and there was a lump starting on her neck and another on her right  shoulder. The doctor ordered x-rays and tests, but already knew that the cancer had returned more deadly than it had been ten years previously. The news that Maria had but a little time left to live struck her family hard. They brought her flowers and little books of inspiration to keep her hopes alive, but Maria had already accepted her mortality. Maria was at peace, but wanted to see her father again. Maria's family was afraid for her to leave the hospital and return to a primitive village out on the distant mesa. They all went anyway.

Juan Chavez welcomed his child and her family. His fortunes had not improved over the years, but he made his grandchildren comfortable before the fireplace and gave his own bed to his daughter and her husband. The little portion of rice, beans and tortillas seemed inadequate to his guests, but it was all Juan had to offer. Juan bid them good night and went to sleep in the shed. As he went down the path, he heard Maria's husband follow.

"Mr. Chavez, for years I've heard how your prayers saved Maria so long ago. Can't you pray again for her... for us?" Juan's eyes sought the ground and his shoulders slumped beneath the question. "Senor, I can not. I bargained for ten years more for Maria, and God granted that prayer. How can I, with honor go again now?" Maria's husband had expected nothing more.  He turned with a sigh and retreated back up the path to the little house.

Overnight the clouds built up into towering thunderheads and the air grew thick with moisture. Long before dawn Juan Chavez was awake wrestling with his conscience. Finally, he quietly left the shed where his goats once lived and walked again down the long path leading to his church. By the time Juan reached the front steps of the chapel, fat drops of cool rain were beginning to kick up little poofs of dust as they hit the ground. Inside the chapel the thick adobe walls and high roof muted the sound of distant thunder. Juan dipped his fingertips into the Holy Water. He knelt and crossed himself. He moved to the front of the chapel and lit a candle.  With humility, he knelt again before the polished altar rail.

Juan's prayer was as fervent as it had ever been. Though his knees hurt terribly from the cold stones, he continued to pray for a long time. Finally, Christ on his cross was moved by the simple piety of his old friend. "Juan", Christ whispered, "did I not tell you before the balance of the universe must not be upset?" Juan looked up into the eyes of the wooden Christ and silently nodded his head. "Juan, to preserve the balance of all things I took from you ten years, and gave them to Maria. For this, you will soon be with me, and Maria will join us in joy."

Outside the old church the thunder rolled across the mountains, and a chill wind shook the cactus to their roots. Ladybugs came out to welcome the rain. On an acre of flat ground twenty miles away, thousands of little frogs came out of hibernation and began hopping about in search of a mate. In a canyon where a flash flood had just washed away several tons of sand, a bit of gold laden quartz was revealed for the first time in eight hundred years. A red-tailed hawk wheeled in lazy circles above the mesa.

They searched for Juan Chavez when he failed to show up at the little house by mid-morning. They searched until they found him in the chapel, cold as the stones beneath him. The family stayed on for the funeral, and then returned to Albuquerque.  Maria died a month later. Now Maria sleeps with her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents in the churchyard of the little chapel that must soon fall into ruin and melt back into the dirt from which it was raised.

N. W. Sherman is a retired Civil Servant who lives in New Mexico.  His time spent spinning short stories and abstract painting. 

Refrigerator Art

by

Michael Joshua

He could barely control his enthusiasm; if you didn’t know what was going on, you’d think the five-year-old was going to wet his pants. But he just danced around, waiting for me to pull the huge roll of brown shipping paper down from the shelf. The first time I got it for him, his eyes bugged out of his head. He decided right then that I was the coolest grandpa ever.

Once I got the roll down, he started showing me how big of a piece of paper he needed for his painting. He held his arms as far apart as he could reach, saying, “This big, grampa.” I tore it off and placed the paper on the table.

As he climbed into the dining room chair, he reached for his plastic case of paints. Pulling out the blue, green, red, yellow and purple canisters – then the brushes, and sponges, he was ready to provide me with an afternoon of great entertainment.

Grabbing the red, he began to paint across the bottom of the paper – spiking it up in points from the bottom edge. He said he was painting the grass. When I remarked that grass is green, he said “Not in my world. In my world it’s red!” He then grabbed the brush, filled it with purple and started placing streaks down into the grass, and then connected them upwards. I cocked my head for a second and said, “Is that a tree?” “Of course,” he said, “a purple tree. Have you seen a purple tree?” I only smiled.

As he continued to add yellow clouds, a green sun and birds of every color that he could mix together – it dawned on me that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder.

The colors did not make sense to the world I was used to seeing, but in his mind, the colors were perfect.

It was then that I realized my colors were my limitation, not his. For him, the possibilities were endless.

What a colorful world that God had given us. We were used to the colors we saw every day. But God saw us in a different light. Maybe to him the clouds were yellow, the sun was green, the grass was red, trees were purple – how were we to know? His eyes are so different than ours. After all, to God, we were made perfect.

He sent Jesus to us as our Savior, he sees us through a perfect lens, one that we don’t have – but we will have it – someday. When we join him in Heaven, perhaps gold streets will be blue, the tree of life will be red, the pools of water will be brown and it won’t be a bad thing. How do we know for sure what colors mean to him?

As my grandson continued to paint, I leaned back in my chair and looked over his shoulder. There – a pink dog next to the tree – oh no, only a boy would draw that, I laughed out loud.

Then came the stick figures, blue for grandpa, orange for grandma, green for himself, his three cousins are all yellow, and much smaller than the stick figure of himself… I wondered what that signified, if anything, to a five-year-old. Mommy and daddy were both black with red hands, and bigger than everyone else in the picture. It was interesting that mommy and daddy were the only ones with hands at all.

Then the final piece was added, a rainbow. Not that there was any reason for a rainbow, he had not even mentioned rain… but what child can have a bunch of different paints and a canvas and not paint a rainbow?

As he drew the brushstrokes across the sky and through the yellow clouds, he created a rainbow worthy of the most impressive refrigerator art.

I reached for the completed picture and told him that once it dried – it would be displayed with pride on the refrigerator door. After all, those doors were made for grandkids’ artwork.

The world in his painting might not mirror what I see, but it is a colorful world.

Isn’t that what God planned?



This piece has been previously published online by www.FaithWriters.com and the author’s blog http://myinspirationalsayings.blogspot.com. Michael Joshua is a part-time writer, full-time husband, father and grandfather. Blessed and redeemed.

One Morning at Breakfast

by

Bryce Piper

As if on cue, the nearly antique toaster offered up its contribution.  Only real butter entered the house.  Patricia spread it on the toast and thought back to when margarine caught on.  They said it was so much healthier.  Well, butter was good enough for her mother (God bless that soul) and it was good enough for her. From what her granddaughter and the TV said it turns out they weren't so right about margarine anyway.

In the dim morning light the old woman reached into her plastic drainer for the same plate she's used almost every meal.  She put the toast on the dish and that on the worn Formica counter by the stove and its sizzling skillet with a single egg bubbling away.

Hairline cracks spanned the plate's face like a reflection of her own.  It had a round chip or two missing from the edge.  The imperfections could be forgiven.  This plate had been around for a while. 

The kitchen was old, most everything in it a little shabby.  Thin avocado curtains bracketed the windows, one over the sink and a large one over the table.  She took her toast and eggs there, glancing out over the green trees and low houses in the shallow valley spread out below.  It grew crowded over the years. 

Glancing down, she examined the spider web of hairline cracks spanning the plate's face.  So many years, so many memories to cast so fine a net.  She remembered the day she first set eyes on it, part of a set of eight, a gift on their wedding day.

Her husband first appeared on a cool autumn day long ago.  Far away an armistice had just been signed and even folk as country as themselves dazed in a post-war relief. Nearly the entire township turned out for Mike and Ike's weigh-in at the feed and seed. Two hogs from the same litter, Mike got corn, Ike ate the brand name pig chow.  Some said it was disrespectful to name a pig after the president, but since everyone knew Ike would win, no one really cared.  As they led a visibly larger Ike up to the scale, Patricia glanced across the yard.

There he stood among the crowd, as handsome a man as she'd ever seen.  He caught her eye too.  Three years of courtship later, they married.  She sat in her mother's beautiful white lace gown, Robert standing at her elbow, as her new father-in-law placed a heavy box in her lap.

"It's from all of us," he told her, smiling.  The tag read, "To Patricia and Robert with best wishes on your new family." All four of their parents signed it.

It may not sound like much, but in those days beautiful dinnerware didn't fall from the sky and considering how poor both families were and how much Papa'd already spent on flowers and the reception, it was a wonderful gift.

"A good wife needs good things in her kitchen," her mother-in-law whispered, kissing her cheek.  A tear dripped onto Robert's mother's small, round glasses as she leaned over.

Was it so long ago?  It didn't seem so.

"What happened to your brothers and sisters?" the old woman asked the plate.  The egg blinked back at her like a yellow eye in the wrinkled face of an old friend.

Dipping a corner of toast into the yolk, her thoughts drifted to when Robert broke the first plate.  She let out a little chuckle as the memories sifted back.  Bob and Mabel had come over to eat dinner and watch the new television.  "Bob and Bob" Mabel and Pat used to joke.  Mabel used to laugh so.

Pat said she wanted something from the kitchen.  As swollen as she was with Robert Junior in her belly, Robert got up to get it for her.  Such a gentleman.  He caught his great foot on the edge of the coffee table and lost his balance.  The plate went down, shattered into a thousand pieces and threw Robert's dinner over everyone, the carpet and the davenport.  Patricia would have cried if Mabel hadn't laughed so hard.  Soon she had them all rolling.  She and Pat giggled like schoolgirls as they cleaned it up together.

Oh, that old davenport.  It was the same one Mabel doused with a pitcher of water later that year.  "Bob and Bob" had fallen asleep after Thanksgiving dinner, Robert in the chair, Bob on the couch.  Pat had her hands deep in soapy dishwater, scrubbing these very plates, when Mabel said she'd had enough of their snoring.

"How dare they nap while we slave away!" she declared, yanking the full pitcher of ice water from the refrigerator.

Bob came up sputtering and puffing ice water around the living room, his shirt drenched.  She'd dumped the whole pitcher in his face!  What kind of man puts up with that?  But he loved her.  Lord, did he love her.  Even he joined the laughter after he calmed down.  They all laughed so hard they woke Robert Junior in his crib down the hall.  That's just the kind of woman Mabel was.  She could dump water on your good furniture and make you laugh so hard about it you didn't mind at all.

Then there were the pot luck dinners.  So many with the church and all the wives would bring their plates.  People didn't throw things away as they do now.  Bob and Mabel, other friends from church, relatives all gone now, ate from these plates.  Such a miracle none of them ever broke at these events.  Isn't that strange?  Times when it's so likely to lose a plate but you mind and have a care and they're fine.  Then in everyday life when your attention is elsewhere BAM! one's gone.

Young Robert Junior had a share in reducing the count, was probably responsible for the chips in the last one.  Grace was never one of his qualities.  He was a good boy, so precocious!  And he grew big and strong like his father.  Football and good old-fashioned hard work.  Such a good boy, just a little clumsy.

He and his friends, crusty with dried sweat salt, sat in the back yard chomping grilled hot dogs, resting from a hard day's play and impatiently waiting for the summer sun to set and Independence Day fireworks to begin.  He turned excitedly to tell his friend Calvin something and his elbow swept the plate right off the table.  He was so upset for his mother he almost cried.  Such a good boy.

Then there was the one Mabel broke at the baby shower.  Robby was about eight and Robert took him to the ball game that day.  With Patricia pregnant again, her mother and Mabel came to help get the house ready.  With all the women from church and Pat's sisters and everyone sitting around sipping iced tea, Mabel came through the kitchen door with a fresh plate of finger food.  She tripped on a knotted throw rug and the plate went sailing like a Frisbee.  In true Mabel form, she had them giggling about it for hours.

It was so sad when the cancer took her.  She went fast.  One day she and Pat sat laughing together, then suddenly Mabel was in for a radical hysterectomy and a few weeks later she was gone.  She turned pea green, faded and when she finally passed it was a relief for her.  Not many women survived ovarian cancer in those days, at least not diagnosed so late.

Another plate went when Bob passed.  Pat made many dinners for Mabel as she declined and Bob as he pined.  It simply got overlooked when he put a shotgun in his mouth a few months after.  Poor man.  Pat had never seen a man burn with as much love for a woman.  She wondered what happened to the plate?  Was it still intact?  Robert and she wept and prayed for them both.

But these plates were there for it all.  Year in, year out they carried the hearty meals she made for Robert, Robby and young Linda.  Her friends ate from them, her family.  Years after Bob and Mabel passed, they still ate from them.

Mother had just come to stay with them now that Jesus had called Papa home. They had an extra room with Rob Junior gone.  She insisted on washing the dishes by hand, despite the brand new dishwasher Robert bought.  It kept her busy, kept her from thinking about Papa.  There Mother stood at the sink, scrubbing away with Pat beside her grumbling about drying dishes when she had a perfectly good machine to do the work.

Cronkite droned away in the other room.  Pat tried to ignore the newscasts because they put a lump in her throat.  She looked up to see Calvin coming up the walk.  He'd gotten a job with a delivery service after high school and wore his uniform neatly pressed.  He hadn't been to the house since Rob Junior had been drafted and shipped to Vietnam.

Pat heard Linda answer the door and was surprised to see Calvin scurry away down the walk with his tail between his legs.  Linda stood in the kitchen door, a telegram in her hand.

"Mama?" was all Linda could say as the plate slipped from Pat's hands and shattered on the floor. So much grief for one house.

Linda married years later in '77 to a nice Jewish boy.  His parents weren't too happy that Linda wasn't a member of 'the chosen people' but the kids were in love.  Pat was happy for them.  In consideration of the new in-laws, they made sure the catering was kosher.  It tasted so horrible she and Robert ate after they got home, laughing about it over the old plates.

They got the kids a fine set of sturdy flatware.  Pat didn't think they used it, though, having received two or three sets as wedding gifts.  Things didn't mean the same, it was a different age.  Linda would bring them out when Robert and Pat would visit, and that was nice.

Pat's sister and family stayed one Christmas a few years later.  The middle nephew, Jason, dropped a glass soda bottle on the edge of one plate, knocking away a triangular chunk, which made the plate just as useless as a shattered one.  Poor boy felt so guilty.  Such a nice boy and so good looking; so tall, fair and athletic.  They all gave Pat funny looks when she wondered aloud why some lucky girl hadn't snatched him up. 

Jason wasted away years later.  He thinned and at first they didn't know what made him so sick.  He got splotches and they said it was cancer.  Linda privately revealed later it was the AIDS.  Poor boy.  Such a horrible way to go.

That left just two from the original set.  Of course they got new dishware over the years, the first probably about when Linda was born.  Those other sets came and went.  But they always held on to their special plates.

Robert and Pat would fry bacon and eggs and sit across from one another and eat from the last of their flatware.  She used to look up into his brown eyes, the same deep eyes she saw across a crowd at a pig weighing fifty years before.  Those eyes that stayed young and vibrant and full of love while the face around them wrinkled and grayed.

And then one morning that face with the mischievous smile wasn't across from hers any longer.  Time has its way with everyone and he'd had a long, full life. She was thankful for the time she had him. But it was hard to let go.  For a while she set out his empty plate and ate across from it.  Then one empty day she smashed it on the floor and stomped the shards into the linoleum and had a good cry.

She used the new plates from time to time.  Linda came by to see her often.  And Linda's children would bring their giggling babies now and again to visit Great Grandma.  All so precious, they made her beam with pride.  Sometimes she saw Rob Junior in their faces smiling with joy.  Even though so many were gone, she remembered all the wonderful times, the things they did, the times of love and pain, of fear and elation.

Games of bridge and Ed Sullivan and Lawrence Welk, the backyard grill and rolling laughter, pregnancy, diapers and cradles and first words and first steps and snuggles, learning to ride bikes and first days at school, Christmas joy and bumps and bruises, a scraped knee, wins, losses and neighborhood kids, more baby joy and a proud big brother, science fairs and football games and Barbie dolls and leaf collections, the loss of good friends, driving lessons and graduations and kissing your baby for the last time before he never comes home from war, funerals and weddings and grandkids and guests, breakfast and golden years, undying love and saying goodbye, unbelievable loneliness and ghosts from the past, memories and babies' babies giggling with laughter...

One plate, the last of a set more than a half century old, a superficial spider web spanning its face, stared back at her like a cloudy mirror.  So many memories tucked away in those fine cracks.  She scraped up the last of the yolk with a corner of cold toast, washed the worn plate and put it in the drainer to drip.

A quick note left on the counter read, "Linda, please take good care of my plate.  Tell all the kids I love them.  Love, Mom." Somehow she just knew it was time.

She walked out to her living room, laid down on her comfy davenport, not the same one from her memories but still her own, and went home with a smile.

Bryce grew up in a small Pennsylvania town and enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps in 1995 at the age of 22. In his years on active duty, Bryce has travelled around the globe. He enjoys reading, movies, dining, and quality time with his family. He and his wife and children live aboard Camp Lejeune, NC.

Safe Harbor

by

Wayne Faust

   
There were just eight of us on the sailboat along with the captain. We were having a wonderful voyage. None of us had met before the trip but we seemed to be getting along just fine. By day, the ocean was a brilliant turquoise and by night, the sky was awash in all the stars of the Milky Way. We had been blessed with clear weather and a gentle breeze for the entire week so far. The feeling of being happily lost on the endless ocean was delicious, even though we assumed the captain had been plotting our course all along.

All of us had answered an ad in a travel magazine for singles, so none of us was shy. Every night we'd sit on the deck under the vast canopy of stars. Moments like that, when the splendor of the universe was arrayed all around us, were conducive to talking about deep, heady things. I didn't usually say much but I liked to listen and encourage the others. That was just my way.

Ruby was a woman who had a strong belief in the power of crystals. She had quite a collection of them and even kept one in her shirt pocket, close to her heart. She said that it would protect her from bad karma and help her to live a healthier, longer life. She even gave a crystal to me on the first night, holding it out to me as if it were part of the Crown Jewels. I took it and smiled, examining it and nodding, even though I didn't believe in crystals. The last thing I wanted to do was to be negative toward a new friend.

Carlos was a man would meditate every evening on one of the deck chairs, chanting a phrase over and over. When he finished, he joined the rest of us. I once asked him if meditation made him feel better. He nodded his head and offered to teach me but I told him maybe some other time. I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him that the whole idea of trancelike meditation made me a little nervous.

Emily was an older woman who read tarot cards by the light of the ship's lantern. We all laughed at some of the things she told us about ourselves and some of her guesses seemed to be pretty close to the mark. I let her read my fortune one night and although it was full of generalities and half-truths, I pretended to be amazed. I didn't want to spoil the fun. And besides, she seemed to think it was more than a game, and who was I to question her beliefs?

I was very popular on that voyage. Everyone seemed to really like me because I knew how to fit right in. I had my own beliefs, of course, but in my mind it would have sounded like preaching to tell the others. No one likes preaching. I was sure the others had heard my beliefs a thousand times before anyhow and they wouldn't have been interested. The important thing was to try not to shove anything down anybody's throat.

On the third night we all stayed up until 5 AM. By then we had gotten really comfortable with each other. We did a lot of talking that night, and even some off-key singing. As things finally broke up and we stood to make our bleary-eyed way to our bunks, I glanced off to the east. The sky was already lightening and I saw a dark sliver on the edge of the horizon. It looked like an island.

***

It's hard to know exactly what happened next. I went to bed of course, just like everyone else, and fell instantly to sleep. But how we all ended up in the water, floundering around like drowning puppies, I'll never know. All I remember is waking to the sounds of shouting, of running feet on the deck above, of someone banging on my cabin door. I heard the terrible words, "We‘re sinking!"

I jumped out of bed and ran up to the deck in panic. The boat tilted at a nauseating angle and as I stood there gaping it felt like I was in a fun-house, the kind where the floors heave up and down. Soon the angle got too steep for me to stand, and although I reached out to hang onto the mast, my hand slipped and I slid into the water.

None of us had had time to prepare for something like this. One moment we were all sleeping and the next we were in the water. I watched the top of the mast slide beneath the waves and we were alone in the eerie quiet of the open ocean. I grabbed at a wooden chest that was floating by. I climbed on top of it, hanging on for dear life. I looked around. Others had grabbed onto bits of Styrofoam coolers, to pieces of wood planking, to anything that would float. I counted heads. There were only eight of us. The captain was gone.

We padded toward each other and grabbed hands so we could stay together. We bombarded each other with questions. Did anyone know what had happened? Why did the ship sink? Did the captain go down with the ship? But none of us knew a thing.

"What should we do?" someone asked.

"Maybe we should stay together,” said someone else. “The captain might have sent out a distress signal before we went down.”

“I don’t think so,” said another. “If he had been able to do that, he would have made it off the boat like the rest of us. We need to figure out which way to go. There must be an island around here someplace.”

"But which way?" asked someone else.

We were having trouble staying together because the waves kept trying to move us apart. I sputtered and tasted harsh salt-water. Others coughed.

“Hold onto my arm,” said Ruby to the person next to her. With her other hand she produced a crystal from her shirt pocket. The rising sun caught its surface and turned it into a shining rainbow, making it seem like a magical omen of great power. She squeezed the stone in her palm and closed her eyes. "I can feel the vibrations," she said. "The crystal is telling us there is an island to the north."

I gritted my teeth as I hung onto the wooden chest. North? I was pretty sure I had seen an island to the east, late last night when we were all going to bed. At least I was pretty sure. But I didn't speak up. The woman was so sure of her belief in crystals, and besides, I might have been mistaken.

"Not north," said Emily, the tarot card woman. “We need to go west.” She seemed to have gone into some sort of psychic trance. She took a deep, spooky breath and pointed to the west with her long finger. I looked that way and saw only waves. I looked toward the east, where the sun was just rising out of the ocean. I couldn't see any sign of land. Maybe I was too low in the water. Or maybe there wasn't any land to see that way at all.

"South," said Carlos, the man who knew how to meditate. "The universe is directing us to the south. I can see a flaming arrow in the water." We all looked that way. I saw only more waves.

My mind was a jumble. Should I tell the others what I had seen? Each of the three who had spoken up was convinced they were right. If I gave my opinion then I would be saying they were wrong. Who was I to judge their beliefs? So I kept quiet.

"Well, it's clear to me what we should do," said a fourth person, a lawyer named Michelle. "Each of us should follow the person we think has the right answer."

We all nodded our heads. This seemed very reasonable. We all had a free choice, after all. Choice was the important thing. We would each decide for ourselves.

We let go of each others hands and began to drift apart. Michelle the lawyer followed Ruby and her crystal. Two others followed Carlos and his meditation. Another followed Emily and her tarot cards. That left me. The others looked back as they bobbed in the waves.

"What about you?" shouted Michelle.

"I'll go toward the sun," I yelled back. I couldn't stop thinking about that smudge I had seen on the horizon. To the east. The others smiled and wished me luck. We all felt proud of ourselves for being so enlightened, for letting each other make up our own minds.

Everyone drifted out of sight and I was all alone. I turned toward the east and began paddling. All I saw ahead of me was endless ocean and I felt incredibly small. I began to get thirsty.

After an hour a wave lifted me high and I thought I saw a gray smudge on the horizon. After ten more minutes of paddling another wave lifted me. The smudge had grown larger and I knew it was an island. I cheered and paddled harder.

Suddenly I thought of the others. I spun around, trying to see if any of them were still in view. But I saw no one. I shouted at the top of my lungs, but all I heard in response was the sound of the rolling waves. I shook my head and went back to my paddling. They had made their choice and I had made mine.

Near sundown, I finally reached the shore of a beautiful island. The breeze had died down and gentle waves eased me onto a sandy shore. There was a man there, standing in front of a blazing fire. He wore a simple, white robe and sandals.

As I climbed unsteadily to my feet the man smiled and held out his arms. "Welcome," he said. "You must be hungry."

I gratefully wolfed down the piece of fish he offered me, along with some bread that he had broken off from a fresh loaf. I took several swallows from his flask of wine and sat down on the sand, feeling clean and refreshed. I noticed that my clothes were suddenly, inexplicably dry, and the warmth from the fire felt heavenly. I started to ask the man where we were, what island this was, but he walked away from me. He stopped at the water's edge and stood looking out to sea. The sun splashed below the western horizon. Soon it was dark and stars filled the sky.

"What are you looking for?" I called.

"The others," he answered.

"Others?"

"Yes, there were seven more with you in the water."

My breath caught in my throat. How could he have known that? The man came over and looked into my eyes. His own eyes danced in the firelight.

"Well," I stammered. "They went different ways - each of them. It was their choice."

"Yes, it was," he said. "So why did you come this way?"

"I saw land to the east, a few hours before the ship went down."

"So you knew the right way to go," he said. He didn’t sound angry or accusing. So why did I feel so uneasy?

"Well...I guess so," I managed to say. "But I didn't want to judge them. They were all so sure they were right."

"But you knew the way," he said again.

I looked out at the inky blackness of the ocean. I thought of what it would feel like to be out there still, bobbing in the dark. I considered going back out, swimming all night, somehow, improbably finding the others and bringing them back here.

"It's too late," the man said.

"What?"

"It's too late to save them. They're gone."

I knew in my heart that he was right. I watched the gentle waves lap the sand and felt tears well up in my eyes.

The man put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up and his smile was warm. "I'm so glad you're here," he said. "You need to rest now. You’ve had a very long day."

He led me to a soft spot on the beach where he had prepared a bed for me. I lay down on my back and looked up at the glittering stars. It was a long, long time before I was able to sleep.

Two of  Wayne's stories have appeared here: "The Cross," and most recently, "The Wall" from last month's joyful!.

Going Long

by

Jeffrey Miller

That fall, we went to City Park after school and tossed around a football for a couple of hours. We were practicing for the annual Pass, Kick and Punt competition. We talked about our teacher, Mr. Vasquez, Gale Sayers, this really cute girl in class, and of course, we talked about Larry who had missed most of the school year.

Leukemia was what we were told. I looked it up in an encyclopedia at school. What an awful disease.

Just last summer Larry and I had played on the same Little League team A&W. After a game we rode our bikes to the root beer stand on Columbia for a free root beer. If we won, we got a side order of fries or onion rings. Home runs were good for a BBQ or a hot dog basket. I warmed the bench and just got a free root beer. Larry, on the other hand hit three homers that summer including a grand slam against Lou’s Supermarket. He split his BBQ basket with me. That was the kind of friend he was.

We knew each other from the first grade and were as tight as two friends could be whether it was collecting and trading baseball cards (I traded most of my White Sox col-lection, even the much sought after and hard to find Luis Aparicio for the even much harder sought after Mr. Cub Ernie Banks); riding our bikes down to the Little Vermillion stocking up on penny candy at Ben Franklin’s or playing whiffle ball.

None of us knew just how sick he was that summer. He had been in and out of the hospi-tal a few times during the last school year and in August; just a week before school started he had been rushed to St. Mary’s Hospital.

On one of those crisp, autumn days Mom told me the news as soon as I got home.

“Son, it’s Larry. He passed away this morning.”

“No, that can’t be right. We talked last weekend. He said he’s coming back to school. We’re going to compete in the Kick, Pass and Punt.

“I’m sorry son.”

That night, before I cried myself to sleep I thought about how much I was going to miss Larry—his jokes, his laugh, and most importantly, how much he believed in me. Larry had been a natural when it came to sports. I on the other hand, was lousy at sports but that didn’t stop Larry from hanging out with me and encouraging me.

“Go long,”

We were on our way home from school last autumn, walking down Oak Street and toss-ing a football back and forth when he told me to go long.

We tossed our books to one side, looked up and down the street for any cars and took po-sition.

“Hut one, hut two, hike!”

I took off running down the street as fast as I could after I hiked the ball to Larry. He dropped back, pretending that he was Bart Starr, cocked his arm back and let one fly. I was already halfway down the street; I could hear the ball sailing through the air and when I looked over my shoulder, there it was. He placed it right inside my outstretched arms for amazing pinpoint accuracy as I crossed the imaginary end zone at the end of the block. When I turned, I saw him jumping up and down in the middle of the street with his hands up in the air to signal touchdown.

There might not have been anyone else around to see the great catch I had made and if I told anyone at school about it, no one would have believed me. But Larry had made sure to tell everyone about how I went long and had made an amazing catch. That was the kind of friend that Larry was.

Country Visit

By

Jasper Andrew Grissett, II

Here is my work: Make sure you format your document so that it is Single space between lines and double space between paragraphs. Copy and paste it into the box-there is plenty of room! Country Visit

“Congregation, I’m going to Latta, SC to deliver a word,” I said, standing in front of my church, which seats eight thousand people.  They look at each other in confusion. I hear one person asks where that is.  I tell them it’s in rural South Carolina.

My total membership is twenty thousand.  I am thankful to God for this.  Each Sunday, I make ten thousand dollars through love offerings.  Once again, I am blessed. 

When I received a letter from Barbara Fulton, I knew that it would help my image.  She told me that she listens to me every Sunday on the Christian station.  She is eight years old and she wanted me to come and preach to her church.  My staff reports that it’s a good public relations ploy so I’ve agreed to go to Latta.  They claim this is going to make me more personable, which would be good since we were planning to spread the ministry across international borders.

Visiting this place doesn’t bring any satisfaction to me though.  Plus, I’m not getting paid.  I wanted to her to my church instead. 

This entire trip is Minister Graham’s idea.  Nothing is going to change my mind about small towns.  Nothing.  They are filled with ignorant people who can’t make it in the city. 

I deliver my sermon and I come from Psalm 23:1: The Lord is my shepherd and I shall now want.  The topic is “Satisfying Savior.” I tell the people in the crowd that God told them not to worry about foreclosures because this is a temporary problem just like gas prices.  The crowd gets revved up.  I go on to tell them that we cannot be worried about what the president does in office, God is the high chief and his choices is what shapes an economy and global affairs. 

People from the congregation place love offering at the altar.  “Preach Pastor Ben Friday,” someone shouts from the crowd.  More and more people bring love offerings to the altar.  The sermon is finished and I realized that I have to fly tomorrow morning to Florence, SC and ride to Latta, SC because I have to preach on Monday afternoon.  The kids are on Spring Break so this is an opportune time to deliver the message.  I am preaching to the youth.

The rest of the day passes quickly.  I know the press is going to be there and many adults showing up to see me because this is big news for a small town.  Monday comes and I fly to Florence, SC.  The guy who picks us up is named James Warren, a 6’0’’ overweight, dark-skinned man. 

“Hey sir.  How are you doing,” he asks in a nasal voice. 

“I’m blessed by God.  How long is it going to take to get there?”

“It should take about thirty minutes.  You know the news people are already at the church. Our church only holds two hundred people. Nowhere near the amount of people at your church, but New Bethel Baptist Church is a great place.” 

I nod at Warren comments.  We arrive and people are taking pictures and screaming.  I wave at them and head towards the pastor study.  When I arrive Barbara is sitting in there.  She is a short skinny kid with awkward limbs.  “I want to be a big time pastor like you when I grow up,” she tells me.  I start smiling and think, not in this place you won’t.  But I let her dream and take me on a tour of the church. 

She takes me through the long hallway with white painted walls and then into the back of the church, where the kitchen was located.  In the back of the church are members taking pictures.  I pose with a few of them.  One lady catches my attention as she is frowning at me.  I ask Barbara who is that.  “That is Sister Lilly Bethea,” Barbara tells me.

I walk over to her and extend my hand.  She looks at me angrily.  “I know your type.  You don’t care anything about us.  You just want to be seen.” 
   
Well, it was the truth but it shocked me that someone would say that to my face.  I continue to take pictures but people begin looking at me like I didn’t care, which I didn’t.  I was doing my job.  Barbara looks at me and asks, “Do you want to be here Pastor Friday.”  I tell her, “Yes.”  Barbara looks at Sister Bethea and tells her that she is wrong and that Pastor Friday cares.  This moment sticks with me. 

I have to deliver a sermon and I don’t use my planned text, which was going to be Genesis 1:1.  Instead I used Revelation 22:21: The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you all Amen. 

“This is an important scripture because this is the last one in the Bible.  It’s the ending of something great, all the words of Jesus Christ and God.  The kids and members listen attentively.  Will your life end with you being viewed as a good person just like the Bible end with Jesus being presented as the perfect One?  Or will it end with others being recognized the controllers of your fate?”

I believed this went over the kids’ heads but the parents got it.  I went on to let them know that being from a small town is a good thing; you can build up the region. 

The people begin to get aroused.  They begin bringing money to the alter.  Even though it is nowhere near the amount from my church, I realize these people have a place for Jesus Christ and the Word in their life.  I end my sermon and there are photos being taken everywhere.  I give thanks to Barbara for bringing me here.  The people begin to ask me questions but I’m rushed back to the pastor study. 

Sister Bethea walks into the study.  “I’m sorry about earlier but the spirit told me to tell you what I did.”  I smile back at her because I realized that I did think that this visit wasn’t going anywhere. 

“We’ll see what happens when you get back.  We have this field we want to purchase for the kids.  It’s our way of spreading Christ ministry.” Sister Bethea tells Pastor Friday. 
   
I smile and tell her that I’ll see what our church can do.  I speak my goodbyes to Barbara.  Mr. Warren takes me back to the airport.  I give him a hundred dollar tip.  He smiles and gives me a hug.  I get in my private jet and fly back to Atlanta.

When I arrive I meet with Minister Graham and tell him that we will purchase the field for them.  Within a week, we write the check for the land.  Minister Graham asks me why I have a change a heart.  I give him the truth.  God is needed in the city like he is needed in the small town.


I love to read and write stories. I enjoy playing basketball and working out.  My goal in life is to be the best novelist and short story writer I can be.

THE SLAPPING FOOTSTEPS

by

Deborah L. Reed

The man lived alone, in a town that was not of his choosing. His only grandchild, a boy, who was the light of his life, the joy of his world, the meaning of his existence, lived across the courtyard from him in a squalid apartment complex, much, much different from the luxurious home the man had left behind. The child’s parents had moved there and the man followed, for to be separated from his grandson was something that could not be endured.

When the child was young, the man would hear him running across the courtyard, his feet making fast little slapping noises on the hard concrete.  The child would call his name and the man would open the door of his tiny apartment to welcome the most important person in the world to him. They would spend hours together, the man content with just looking at the child, watching him play, hearing his sweet little-boy laughter, reveling in simply being in the same room with him.

The boy grew older, and the visits grew a little less frequent. The child was going to school now and could not visit the man during the day. But in the evenings the man would sit in his armchair by the door, waiting, listening for the slapping noises that were the sound of his grandson’s feet hitting the concrete. Although the boy did not visit every night, the man took joy from each and every visit. They did whatever the boy wanted, for to be with the child was the only thing that gave the man’s life meaning. He loved him more than life itself and to live in squalor was a small price to pay to be near him.   

When the child grew a little older, he began to have friends and activities that did not include the man. The man would sit in his armchair waiting for the slapping noises, but they seldom came. The boy, when he did arrive, would be apologetic, so sorry, he would say, but I’ve been so busy. I have school and friends and sports and well, I’ll try to come more often.

But he didn’t. As the child grew, the man became less important to him. The man’s heart was aching with love for the child, yearning to simply spend a few minutes with him, but the slapping noises became less and less frequent. The man began to mourn. The light of his life, the reason the sun and the stars had been flung in the sky, no longer needed him.

The boy grew up and moved away from the squalid complex, promising to keep in touch. I’ll be back, he told the man, I’ll come to see you often. You are so important to me, the man told him. Please don’t forget me. I’ll visit often, the boy repeated. But he seldom did.

The man was reduced to spending all day and all night in the armchair by the door, thinking of the child that had once wanted to be with him. He would leave the door open in the hopes that he would hear the slapping noises once again, his mind fixed on memories, memories of the little boy that had once adored him and now no longer cared at all.

The boy began to feel guilty. I need to visit my grandfather, he would tell his friends. I’m going to make it a point to go next week. But next week would arrive and the boy would be too busy, too preoccupied with his own life to find a minute to spend with the man. The longer he stayed away, the harder it became to find the time to go. Eventually, he stayed away so long that he felt too guilty to visit at all.

And, like the man, God still sits in the armchair by the open door, waiting for the slapping footsteps. He doesn’t care how long you’ve been gone, what you have done. He just wants to be with you. You are the most important thing in His life and He wants you to come home.

Deborah L. Reed currently resides in a small bedroom community in Central Texas with her daughter, grandson, and two dogs. She is a retired Science teacher who now works in Code Enforcement. Her work may be found in The Scrambler, Bannafish and Einstein’s Pocket Watch. What’s Done Is Done will appear in the Fall issue of Toucan and The Box Under the Bed will be published in Cynic Magazine October  2010.