15
I awoke the day that I was born and did not fear my death.
For I was young and just a year behind my son.
Weary though, I was, from building a new life for both.
My wife approached with coffee and a kiss.
The Last Word…
I feel the pages above me ripped from their spine. Where have they flown? A crackle; a dashing flash of red and orange on the ceiling above me. My velum breathes in the draft. A dark shadow now covers me.
I see the face, drawing into focus.
NO.
NOT ETHAN.
Not the face I was expecting. He cannot hear my scream.
I’ve lain here in wait for so long. For ADAM, not YOU!
I see the flash of fire in the angry eyes. They grow darker as that fire burns.
The Shepherd
Benjamin's jaw ached. It did that a lot now. Especially since the weather had turned. He pressed the tip of his tongue into the socket where his eye tooth was missing. It pushed out the scar on the lip above, beginning another dull pain.
Benjamin felt a lot older than his 20 years. He shifted to his side to give his hip a rest. David played his harp to keep his mind off this hind side, he supposed. The tumbling hills below Bethlehem were certainly no more comfortable in David's day.
It was the last watch and the darkest of the night. Benjamin's eyes had fully adjusted to the unpolluted darkness. He could see the sheep and their starlight shadows. Some stirred but most were still. The strange convergence of stars above seemed to be growing in intensity and continued to disturb the shepherd. For weeks the strange and undoubtedly bad omen had assembled itself in the sky. And now? The greens, blues and reds were converging in colorless light, almost like the startling flash of midday sunlight off the tops of rolling waves. He'd seen those once up in Galilee when a storm from Jordan stirred the sea from afar. The waters had seemed almost alive and certain of themselves, driving mystery, light and darkness of depth his way. Why did this strange new star remind him of that? Benjamin looked back down to his group's flock.
He caught sight of the one lamb he felt most responsible for. The one he dreaded most. He drifted away to the memories of one terrible day. The one to which his jaw and lip gave testament...
*****
The Tomb
“Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb very early, long before first light and saw the stone had been removed…” from John 20:1-2
She RAN. The others followed as fast as they could. All the way across town to the safehouse.
“Peter! John! WAKE UP!! The tomb…” And then her throat closes off. She can’t seem to choke out the rest of the horrible thought: “Someone’s stolen his body.” She blubbers on and on about what must have happened. The other women plead with the Disciples to DO something. Peter and John are suddenly awake and rushing out the door.
View from the Porch [a Christmas Story]
At midnight, Anna stood at the ramparts in fervent prayer, still looking expectantly to the East. She was certain the signs would continue, as they had for weeks. Last night was so close…
All morning, a heavy cloud had sorrowed on the Temple Mount, shrouding Solomon’s Porch in mist. Anna had waited all day for the weather to break before stepping across the Women’s Court to the covered path high above the Kidron Valley. 500 of them. Stunted, slow steps, nearly the entire furlong across Herod’s Court. She had served 70 years as the Asher Priestess, half of them in this very place. Even as her eyes began to fail, she had witnessed the daily progress as Herod’s artisans raised the New Temple. Stone by stone, planted over Zerubbabel’s rubble. The last distinct thing she remembered seeing with her earthly eyes was the flash of gilding being soldered in place atop the columns of Herod’s vanity. Doubly gold in the last light of a Fall day. Anna’s eyes had been dark for almost 20 years now, even as her ears followed the constant and furious progress on the Temple and the great pavements beyond. She heard the scraping of metal on stone as the altar was moved into the Courts. She heard the hiss of heavy velvet as the veil was hoisted to seal the Holy of Holies. Her mind painted the blue, purple and scarlet yarns on the back of her eyelids. She swayed her hand, dreaming of sewing in the golden thread that embossed the cherubim to the color-shifting fabric. She knew this Temple to be a sham, at least compared to the Temple of Solomon. Yet the design was grand. She had heard rumors that Herod’s men had even been compelled to manufacture an imposter ark to complete the fiction.
Retrace
The straightest of Mississippi roads meander
Traced out by one with more time than direction
Lined with turkey and dogwood
They were the rivers of my youth
From high springs in Tennessee I followed the flow
Down to the flats and hollers below
And collected myself at the bottom
Through fog to a deep pool of grace
SACRIFICE - [a Christmas Story]
Isaac’s knuckles scraped across the rock, smarting. The
burden on his back shifted forward, almost sliding over shoulders and taking
his tunic with it. The tip of a rough branch dug into the nape of his neck.
“Steady, boy!” The old man’s voice was ragged as he stumbled
forward to catch his son from falling face first into the boulder. “You don’t
want to…” The voice trailed off to silence.
“To what, my Father?” Isaac looked back under his arm to
Abraham’s weathered face. It seemed
suddenly drained of color. The first glint of sunrise shone blood red in the
patriarch’s eye. He didn’t answer the boy.
I Am Receding
I am receding
rushing down meridians to the lower pool
at the bottom of my world
the rest of my little school waiting for me there
Crashing through cataracts and eddies
and earthquakes of leaving
I grasp my love’s hand for the long slide
our conversations strangely forward
raw and hopeful still
The Big 'Win.'
Aunt Edna’s Money - Writer's Digest Writing Prompt - August 12, 2016
[Your wealthy Aunt Edna has died and left you all of her money. At first you’re excited, as you’ve been living paycheck-to-paycheck your whole life, and this newfound money offers you endless possibilities. But, in her will, Aunt Edna left one big catch—and, if you don’t do it, all of the money is to be given to your most unlikable cousin, Wilfred.]
Nelson adjusted his pince-nez and cleared his throat. Again. He looked up with that self-righteous disgust that simmered below that polished professionalism. He cleared his throat. Again.
"...the sum of $895,000 shall be transferred to escrow and assigned to the account of James Reagan Wilson immediately upon full hearing and acceptance of the following terms..."
The Cave [A Passover Story}
The boy introduced himself to the blacksmith.
“’God Saves,’ huh? Well He can save us from the Prefect then. Please - Go right ahead. Look around all you want. You won’t find much after Rufus’ goons made off with everything. And I’ll be gone all day working off this tax bill.”
The grizzled man pulled a few Tiberius coins from a pouch behind his belt, spalled and speckled with burns from countless hours behind the anvil. Before he handed them over to the deliveryman, he faked a sneeze. Yeshua clearly saw him spit on the image of the Emperor. The teen handed over the reins to the rented cart and mule; even helped to load some of the beastly heavy boxes into the bed. The load of spikes, nails and shoes clanged loudly as they landed, as much from the anger of the blacksmith as the shifting bed of the cart. The mule began to protest.
A Star in the Sky [a Christmas Story]
Cyrus leaned back on the throne of Babylon as the words swirled in his mind. The scribes record he ‘inclined his face to the heavens as in transport.’ All the satraps and diviners, the wise men and captured princes stood at nervous attention, while the old prophet of the Jews noisily rolled up the old scroll and returned it to its ornate ark. The lid lowered and the hasp swung closed. All seemed to hold their breath.
"Teh..."
……….………………..“Ta, ta, ta, teh, teh, teh….”
The misshapen mass in front of him stuttered and shuddered. As far as he could tell, that is. This cloying darkness swallowed everything. Even his sanity, it would seem. How could it be THIS dark at THIS hour? The sun should be halfway to the horizon putting these jagged beams in stark relief. Now, nothing.
Yet somehow… that red. Was it even a man, anymore? More a crimson tumor – reaching… Where? No one was coming to save him. Like a child, he had screamed for his daddy. And then…
The Fear. It seemed to flow from the dying man and to him.
The Black. It seemed to swallow him. Or was He swallowing it?
The Centurion could barely keep his head up against the weight of all this. His men had already
taken a knee and were rattling their helmets to clear their heads.
…………………….………………..“Teh, teh, teh…”
It was more rasp than word.
The ground roiled under his feet. Or maybe it was his own insides going to liquid. He sensed a coming attack. He forced himself to look in every direction. The thin line of remaining light at the western horizon was rapidly retreating - fleeing this onyx hammer.
God this is oppressive…
Not another man on the ground remained standing. The only other two who remained upright were nailed in that position. The last face he could still see was defiant and straining for a last look. It was that woman the others called a prostitute. The one who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. How was she still standing? God how those eyes blazed. She stood guard over the crumpled mass of the older woman and her son. The Centurion locked eyes with her.
***
Why was the oil sputtering? The choking smoke of an extinguished flame soured the room. The light was dying.
Everywhere.
All day the bleating and the bleeding had paraded outside the door. The blood not human to cover the human soul poured to overflow the drains. Yet sound was overwhelmed by the ragged breath coming from the Lamb on the other hill. All around - Death, and Hope was dying with it. For hours there had not been a twinge from the seat upon which sat the inhabitant of this room. The constant conversation of Three had dwindled to One. How could this be?? With eyes all around, straining to heavens in every direction, but no. the universe has collapsed. Vision was failing.
Eyes left unlit, the Blinded summoned Father in whisper; called in confusion; screamed in growing conviction. “Where are You going??”
“Son!! Where are You??” How can I abide here? Why will no one answer??
***
……………………………….“Teh, teh, tehhhhhh..”
***
The soldier was terrorized by the sound behind him. Frozen by the eyes before him. Then, the last flash of horizon light began to flicker in the woman’s eyes.
***
……..……..……………………………………“Teh…
"TETELESTAI!!!”
***
The Resident of the dark room was shattered by the scream. Father remained as silent as Death. The Black landed as an iron lid.
The howl from within the sanctuary echoed back to the hill and the Blinded thrashed out through the dank blanket, throwing it aside in shreds. Leaping from the seat of judgment, mind made up, Spirit flooded out across the mount.
“Son. Where are You??!!”
The Agony poured down the alleys smelling its way along the blood trail, scraping over the souls of fallen men. It rushed out the walls, felt the edge of Gehenna and sped to the place of skulls.
‘WHERE ARE YOU??”
Spirit, still-blinded, raged to flatten anything in its path in pursuit of Son. It collided with a soul redeemed and the fragile one shuddered. Spirit surged forward.
***
The Centurion captured the flash in her eyes - something different - something fierce. The color of desperation. And in that flash he knew it was coming for him. The Wall met his soul full in the face and spun him around. It roamed the hill, pouring over and over the beams. Everything between the soldier's ears and behind his ribs was in shards.
The Desperation was still… Searching.
***
‘WHERE ARE YOU??”
“FATHER!! WHERE IS HE??”
***
The Centurion saw it casting to and fro. It rushed away to seek that which was not to be found in all the earth. And still the darkness wouldn’t relent. But it sagged. Spent. Stumbling, he fell forward vowing not to fall to his knees. He fell into the cross, instead. That red, still imprinted on his brain even in this lightlessness horrified him. He held onto that iron peg to steady himself.
"Surely..."
"Surely, this..." His hand slipped into the congealed wetness behind the peg. He retched.
And then the darkness began parting, filaments of grey filtering down through the cracks of unforgiving, iron resolve. Its purpose served, the darkness began to decay. It collapsed under its own weight and the ants below scrambled along their mound in confusion, surveying the damage.
Eventually, the natural night returned to its rightful place and covered the world in its familiar blanket. An attempt to comfort its own Creator, perhaps.
***
Twice more Night and Day attempted to sabbath what remained inconsolable in earth or heaven. Weary greys of dawn and tarry blackness of blank skies devoid of stars. All creation seemed forever spent.
And then…
Your Story #55 Submission
Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo above.
“The first to fall was a 14 year-old redhead from Waukesha, her left nostril trickling and the convulsions crumpling the hand-made “LOVE YOU, JUSTIN!!” poster.”
All Wet
WRITER'S DIGEST "Your Story #54" Competition entry
Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo above.
Your whisper slayed me and you did as you promised, leaving her at the altar -- so I waited for you till the tide came in.
The Hunt
WRITER'S DIGEST "Your Story #52" Competition entry
Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo above.
"With their eyes on the prize, he fingered the axe knowing he had a choice to make: The best Christmas tree, or they disappear forever..."
Flip for it
WRITERS
DIGEST "Your Story Competition #51.
Prompt: Write a short story, of 750 words or fewer, that begins with the following line of dialogue: “Heads, we get married; tails, we break up.”
*****
“Heads, we get married; tails, we break up.”
Bill observed the silver dollar through rheumy eyes. The 1899 Lady L stared blankly off to his left, betraying none of her feelings. The only hint, her lips - slightly taciturn, maybe disapproving. Still, she didn't argue or object. A stoic, unwilling to face him. A face that would decide Bill's fate, whether she cared or not.
Memorial Day
NPR Three-Minute Fiction 50 Word Challenge: "Memorial Day"
She sips her juice box while her father faces the wall. Her hand holds a black crayon and slightly crumpled rubbing.
Writer's Digest Contest April, 2013
[Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo above...]
"His depth perception was failing, or the sky was literally falling - either way he wanted answers and he wanted them NOW..."
Good Friday
Bending, submitting
Falls to a breaking, shattering
Hope crushed, mingled with a serpent's blood
A gaping maw devours
Gnashing, hellish teeth throw sparks
A sea of black smooths over the hole
A rain of darkness descends
A reign of darkness ascends
And those left above the sea are drowning
Writer's Digest Contest February, 2013
[Prompt: Write the opening sentence (25 words or fewer) to a story based on the photo above...]
"Ripples of Scarlet and alabaster shimmered before him as he lowered the gun slowly to his waist."
Tracks
Writer's Digest Short Story Contest Entry, 2013
The man froze in his tracks. His weren’t the only ones pressed into the fresh fall of snow. A scuffling trail of sneakers - a child’s sized 7 - led from his front door, between his own, turning left down the sidewalk.
He panicked, dropping the shopping bag, splitting the milk jug and soaking the newspaper and paper bag of fresh-ground coffee. The cherry twizzler hung limp from his lips, an indecisive weathervane in the still air.
Escape
2013 "Beat the Clock" Contest Entry - Bookrix.com
Lucy reached forward to poke her finger through, thinking that maybe she could see better. Jimmy yanked his four year old sister’s hand away from the door.
“Don’t do that!” he hissed. “Be quiet - and still.”
Translation - Chapter 13
Chapter 13
(Sunday, 3:30PM - Canyon West, TX)
Mitch finds
himself back at The Colpoys home. He writes down what he knows up to
this point and the spirtual counsel he gains in La Grange. C.R. &
Sylvia arrive home after an emergency cell group leaders meeting.
They are disturbed about what they hear. There has been a tragedy in
the Pastor's household. Together they start investigating Mitch's
suspicions. Mitch takes a walk to decompress a bit. He meets people
that induce flashbacks from his subconscious. A geocacher leaves
Mitch with a thought that continues to nag him - 'when you find
something in the box you take it and replace it with something else.'
The carpet wasn't as
hard as Mitch expected. In fact, much more plush. The room had
suddenly grown quiet, hushed. Mitch raised his head from between his
hands to see what the quiet was all about. He saw a bedspread. It was
the guest bedroom of the Colpoys house and he was lying on the floor.
His fists dug into the thick pile of the carpet as he slowly pulled
in a deep breath. He closed his eyes again. He focused on the soft
hum of the old, 80's bed-side digital clock above his head to the
left; the even softer scent of some non-descript Glade plugin. Mitch
finally rose to his feet deliberately, the cheap faux leather of his
new belt squeaking as he straightened himself out. He looked down at
the outfit. The cheap tie was beginning to choke. He sat on the edge
of the bed and stared at his new shoes, trying to make sense of the
past 10 minutes. Then he thought about the past 18 hours.
The Submission
She
refused to open her eyes, hitting the snooze for the third time. Her plan to
not move was trumped by her bladder. With a groan, she swung her feet to touch
the cool oak boards, still slick from her 7th waxing this week.
Before a panic attack could begin, her cellphone erupted with the bridge to
‘Imagine’. She glimpsed the caller id through bleary eyes and reached for the
disconnect. Her numb middle finger hit the ‘speakerphone’ button instead.
Without waiting a beat the voice blared out at her – “Have you seen yet?? Have
you heard?? I can’t login for another hour!! Finalists ONLY until 8am. WHAT’s
HAPPENING???”
The Shot
(Drabble contest entry - bookrix.com)
I did this.
A twitch in his palm; a rustle of feathers. The dove jerks and rolls over. Will it fly? A nail scratches his wrist, drawing a drop of his own.
A noise closes from behind. “Good shot, son!"
The Drawer
(Drabble contest entry, bookrix.com)
“Freeze! Police!”
The Devil's Wife
(Drabble contest entry - bookrix.com)
Dirt and sky. She looks up as the shadow passes. Her whole life has been a shadow. Now the late afternoon sun returns as a delayed rain pelts her forehead. The devil’s beating his wife.
“Well, now he’s got someone else to beat,” she says bitterly. “This devil’s done with his beatings. I’m free.”
The rain hardens, threatening hail. The trickle down her arm creates a streak of brown between her fingers. She opens her palm and stares at the wettened soil. She lets the rain wash it into the gaping maw before her. Splatters thump the plain casket below.
The Kiss
The blurred light grew. The man felt his eyelid open slowly, tentatively. He was floating - on what he could not be sure. Something below and within stirred, expanding. A sound - a slow wind - sounded around him. 'Within' continued to rise. A soft click murmured and 'within' began to deflate.
It's my body…
The man listened keenly to the sound of, what, exactly? Air - flowing from his lungs. It seemed to go on forever. Then, another soft click. 'Within' began to rise, again.
I'm alive… Why?
Why wouldn't you be?
Because, I…
The man searched for an answer. None came. And it didn't come ever… so… slowly. Each click echoed down a long tunnel to his mind's ear. Each moment rushed and lingered for an eternity at the same time.
Where am I?
Unrepentant Surrender
On the passing of J. Keith Miller...
Keith Miller has been tapping energy for 60 years. Today he tapped into the mother lode. He went Home this afternoon at the age of 84 in the arms of his wife, Andrea, and at the insistence of an enemy - pancreatic cancer. He died faithful, and in the only kind of faith he believed worthy - Expectant. He pursued a surrendered life with a maddening obsession at times. He expected God to meet him when he did. He chased after God passionately, sloppily, even in anger. And he journaled his failures. Later in my own life, I came to understand how merciful God is to me by watching Keith crawl back to the foot of the cross after some spectacular personal crises. Expectant faith is desperate. It was the only kind he ever seemed to live. It is the only kind that matters. When it came to surrender, Keith was adamant and unrepentant. It shows in his final blog entries.
Once upon a time, Keith drilled the earth of Texas and Oklahoma looking for his meaning as a man. As an unsettled, lonely and driven member of the 'Greatest Generation' he doggedly pursued wealth and the American dream across the American South as an entrepreneur in Oil Exploration. He worked for the biggest names in Energy and launched a number of successful related businesses.
By the late 50s, he was on his way to the top. And he found it profoundly meaningless...
Once upon a time, Keith drilled the earth of Texas and Oklahoma looking for his meaning as a man. As an unsettled, lonely and driven member of the 'Greatest Generation' he doggedly pursued wealth and the American dream across the American South as an entrepreneur in Oil Exploration. He worked for the biggest names in Energy and launched a number of successful related businesses.
By the late 50s, he was on his way to the top. And he found it profoundly meaningless...
The Appointment
- Bookrix 2012 Flash Fiction 3rd Place Award!
- NPR Weekend Edition "Three Minute Fiction" Submission, Round 7 -
(Prompt: Submissions must have a character come to town and someone leave town. Each piece of writing has to be read in less than three minutes, so no longer than 600 words.
More info at: http://www.npr.org/series/105660765/three-minute-fiction)
Here's a link to the NPR Round 7 Winners program:
http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=142264396&m=1422750433
**************************
“Jack, did you say?
You're probably asking for me. John Wilson. Right there – line
number 7. What's that? No, sorry, don't know him. Not personally,
anyway. He disappeared about 6 months ago, from what I've heard. The
same day I arrived in town, as a matter of fact.
“I look a lot like him?
Yeah, I get that a lot. That gets pretty annoying sometimes, let me
tell you! By all accounts he was a loser. How do I know? I looked
into it a bit. He had the same dead-end job for 25 years. Nervous,
hypertensive type. Didn't have many friends. And those he did have
were anchored to the same row of barstools every night.
Falling Forward - 9/11/11
Pillars of Smoke and Fire
Unprepared sacrifices seized
Thrown on raging altars
An offering undemanded
Souls unwilling hurled Heavenward
Our Standard and Shield
Pierced by fresh transgression
The perimeter torn and ragged
A fiery incursion
The general's tent aflame
The Union soil bereft
Bears the final hammer blow
Travelers in a moment warriors
Stop assaults at rolling ramparts
The wound a field of heroes
A battleground around, within
Nowhere to turn from sorrow
A 'we' deformed, defined by mourning
A generation born of widows
Ten years witness - still the silence thunders
Paradise
The flesh under the hole in Akil’s shirt was burning. Literally. He rolled to the ground to smother the phosphorus ember. He ripped off the night-vision goggles and blinked hard from the flash and now the total darkness.
“Ten, Akil. You have ten seconds. Get to the trigger.”
The voice crackled in his right ear. The one that could still hear. He still couldn’t see.
“Eight... Seven...”
Akil could make out a green blur next to his face. The goggles were blinking back to life. He grabbed them and held them to his face with his bleeding left hand. He swung up his head to see the green blaze of gases still heating the atmosphere around him.
“Six...”
There. The trigger. The switch to end it all. Still mounted on the fake mailbox. One of seven placed among the districts of Gaza and the West Bank. Yawm al-Qiyāmah has come. Al Dajaal almost deceived them all. The self-proclaimed peacemaker had united Palestine. Made Peace with the infidel. And what did it bring? This. Surely he had to die. It had been spectacular. The Sons of Mercy had dealt the blow as the devil signed away their destiny. His blood for the blood his pen would spill. Alas, it mingled with the blood of the Israeli devil. One bullet; two hearts. Not intended, but a fitting end to the both of them.
“Five...”
Death Mocks Her
"Doom am I, full-ripe, dealing death to the worlds, engaged in devouring mankind." Lord Krishna
For two cycles now, Katniss Everdeen has stared straight into the maw of death… and let it consume her. There's only a shell left, yet this irrepressible teen has become immortal by becoming the dealer of death. "I’m running on hate. When the energy for that ebbs, I’ll be worthless," she groans. At first she had to kill to survive. Now she must hate and kill to survive. What kind of survival is this? It's not. And to think, all she ever wanted was to settle down and spend her years angst-ing over which high school crush to marry. Well, dear soul-weary reader, if you've persevered with her this far (and millions have) there's no choice but to see her through until she flames out and rises from the ashes.
Twice Around the Sun
Today my new morning dawns
I am alive to see it.
A hazy white above
A summer's burn below
Wisps of coffee steam
Now rise within my grasp
The Island of Misfit Troikas
Katniss Everdeen has a problem. Everyone who admires her wants her dead. Everyone who loves her soon will be. So what's a girl to do? Fight like Hell. It's all fatalist frustration, because she just can't seem to die. And it's not for lack of trying. She's determined to see her one and almost love survive another round of sporting mayhem if it kills her. Unfortunately, it doesn't.
The Hunger Games have become the Hungrier Games. The unprecedented happens. The victors of previous Hunger Games must square off to appease the Hunger Gods one more time as they luxuriate in their plush vomitoriums. They're getting dyspeptic and a tickling feather won't help. Rebellion is ravaging the slave districts like a cruise ship virus. And it's putting a dent in the Capitol's menu. Used to satiating every gluttonous pang, the grumbling of a million starving bellies has become an annoyance that surround sound and 3d special effects can't drone out.
Darker by Day
Welcome to the Heart of Darkness. Only this darkness has no heart. It's lit with high-watt tungsten - camera ready. It comes with a cast of thousands, and thousands more to do their hair, nails and wardrobe. Live from the Capitol! It's Running Man 24/7 on every network!! You can't miss it! By law you may not avert your eyes. Let the killing of children begin! Better yet - we'll have the children do the killing!!
The most sinister Stephen King novels are set in broad daylight. The Twilight Zone episodes that linger in your mind for years were more 'zone' than 'twilight.' So it is with The Hunger Games. Yet this is no allegory or cautionary tale - at least not in a way accessible to young minds. In the adrenaline-doused diary of Katniss Everdeen, it's a present progressive universe. More unrelenting than urgent. We're stuck in the unending infinitive. How else is a teen girl to document her own demise? the world she observes is all objects to her gerunds. She's 16 years old and there's nothing sweet about it. It's all acid, bile, blood and burning. She's the noble savage and coy flirt. Sounds a lot like High School. The only relief is a twitching retreat into your own troubled dreams.
The Nail
The man pushed up against the nail as long as he could stand the pain, pressing the palm of his foot more firmly into the splinters of rough wood behind it. His calves burned. God how they burned. His chest leapt to force in the air one last time before collapsing along with his knees. The burning began anew in his wrists.Why??
*****
“Where’s Joshua?” His mother asked, handing the sack filled with lunch to her husband.
“Down at the shop. Why?”
Joseph stooped to grab the sack and sneak a peck on Mary’s cheek.
“You left him there with your tools out? He’s seven years old!” There was a little alarm and scolding in her voice.
“Really? You’re worried? Has he ever climbed up and grabbed a tool without permission? Come, woman. Your son’s practically Noah in his obedience. He’s in one of those trances of his, anyway, studying something new on the bench.”
“What is it this time?” She asked.
“A nail,” he replied. “The Legate wants that Roman-style table done by Shabbat.” Most of his work was done the traditional way, but this official wanted his table built in the Roman way, slammed together with iron pins. They had fascinated Joshua. Perhaps he’d never seen them before.
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